Justice
by The Gull's-Way Collective
Summary: Goon attrition, scary Polaroids, and a well-maintained wood chipper: it's another weekend in the pursuit of justice.
1. Default Chapter

_**Justice**- The Gull's-Way Collective _

_Rating: PG 13_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, for entertainment purposes only. These are not our characters, and we make no profit from them.

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**Authors' Notes:**

For my part, the only thing to say is, "Thanks." Thanks to Judy for giving us this framework to explore, and for the opportunity to try something new; it was loads of fun. And thanks to L.M. Lewis for being an amazing writing partner. She is witty, insightful, and—perhaps most important—patient. I'd be honored to do it again. --- Cheri

As for me, this _was _a whole bunch of fun. Thank you for the opening pitch, Judy, it was a doozy. And thank you Cheri—oh, the midnight emails, the attention to detail: the weather in Ojai in March, the inner workings of a wood chipper, and for finding Frank's car. Never was there a better co-author and beta. Do another?—anytime my dear. L.M. Lewis

Well, without Cheri and L.M., this story would have been dead in the water. It was great fun to watch them work and I learned a lot about teamwork, writing faster than the speed of light, research and, of course, punctuation! I also made two new friends and I'm grateful for that. It's been fun. Speaking of another, I have this idea… Judy

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**Chapter One**

The day was warm and sunny for that time of year in California. The beginning of March could be notoriously cool and rainy. A car came though the gate and the sun glinted off the windshield.

The judge, bent over and humming an old jazz tune, lifted his head when he heard the car pull up behind him. He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it over his shoulder, mindful of getting any dirt or grease on his mint condition Corvette. Seeing who it was caused him to turn back to the engine of the car and begin working again.

"Hey, Frank," he muttered as he reached for a wrench.

"Hi, Milt," the other man replied with an amused lilt to his voice, "don't tell me you still won't let Mark work on this thing?"

"Nope," the judge said. "He may know his way around that souped up tomato of his, but this needs the attention of someone who _really_ knows what they're doing."

Just as he finished speaking a figure came puffing around the garage pushing a silent lawn mower.

"Look, Hardcastle! I realize that I have to work from sunup until sundown here on the plantation, but I'm not going to cut forty acres of grass by hand!" McCormick was sweaty, flushed, and more than a little aggravated. "The mower quit again over on the south lawn!"

"I told you to have it fixed from the last time, McCormick!" the judge fumed over at him.

"I _did_!" exclaimed Mark. "I even drove halfway to Mexico for the parts once the guy at the shop stopped laughing at me and told me where I could _find_ them. Nobody around here even carries them anymore. I'm telling you, Hardcase, we need a new mower!"

"No, _we_ do not need a new lawnmower- - you're supposed to be the engine expert here, maybe you could just hot-wire it and get it started."

Irritation flared in the younger man's eyes and he started to fire back but was interrupted by Frank Harper's shouting.

"Gentlemen, please!"

The two combatants were momentarily averted from starting WW III right there in the yard. They stopped and stared at the detective, who had his hands in the air.

"You know, I drive all the way out here enjoying the quiet and the view, relaxing just a bit until I pull in this drive and start to tense up all over again," the detective said patiently, for he was all too familiar with the temperaments of the two who lived there. "Look, everybody's been working hard. Why don't we all just go sit for awhile and have something to drink?"

"Hummph," snorted the judge, still glaring at Mark. "McCormick, as you seem to be done for the day, why don't you get some? C'mon Frank." He turned and started for the house.

Harper looked to the sky, shaking his head. He had seen Hardcastle and McCormick's initial mistrust and awkwardness grow into a true and remarkable friendship during the last couple years. But he didn't understand how they lived together without killing each other.

**00000**

Mark walked into the study a short while later carrying a small tray with three beers. Balanced also on the tray were a bag of chips and a couple of packages of cookies. He set it on the coffee table, grabbed one of the beers and some of the cookies. Smiling, he plopped himself down on the couch.

Frank took a long sip and sighed. "Now, isn't this nice."

"Sure is," said Mark, earning him a grunt from the judge.

"What brings you out here today anyway, Frank?" McCormick asked, cocking an eyebrow. "It's not poker night, or are you just checking to see if the Lone Ranger here has anybody locked up in the pool house again?"

"Don't tell me, hot shot over there got a speeding ticket I should know about and don't yet?" the judge retorted.

Over on the couch, Mark rolled his eyes.

"Well it was nice while it lasted..." mumbled Frank.

The detective put his beer on the table looked at Hardcastle and said, "Samuel Tilton." At the name the judge pursed his lips. Frank continued, "With his retrial starting Monday and you needing to testify again, the D.A. wants to see you tomorrow morning."

"Who's Samuel Tilton?" Mark asked, looking at Frank as he reached for more cookies and popped one in his mouth. "And why didn't you tell me about the trial?" He glanced at Hardcastle, confusion written all over his face.

"He's a Wall Street wizard- -" Frank started.

"Wall Street Wizard-HAH!" exclaimed Hardcastle.

"-who was arrested for murder four years ago," continued the detective. "_AND_, who's case got thrown out when he wasn't properly handled by a rookie cop when he was arrested." Frank reached for the bag of chips. "We suspect his involvement in two other murders but got nothing to go on." Glancing over at the judge, "You didn't tell him?" indicating McCormick with a nod.

"A snake, that's what he is!" spouted Hardcastle. Shaking his head at Frank's question, "I didn't get around to it," he said evasively. "Can't believe that with all we had on him, that case was thrown out!" He gave McCormick a nauseated look and said, "Beer _and_ cookies?"

"Why's he going back to court?" asked Mark to Frank through another mouthful of what he was eating. "And _why_ didn't you tell me about the trial?" he repeated, ignoring the look he was getting.

"His former driver said something smart to the cops while he was being questioned about something else. Seems Tilton had threatened the cop who arrested him and the cop lied on the stand. Now that that's all finally straightened out, he's back in court. And he's not real happy about it either," Frank finished with a pointed look at the judge. He paused before continuing, "Then there's the missing evidence in the form of the statements you and Doug Riley gave, so the D.A. wants you to go over everything again before the trial," he added quickly, averting his eyes from Hardcastle.

"Missing evidence?" Hardcastle frowned. "Who had it?"

"Yeah," Frank said disgustedly, "the statements, some of the crime scene photos, and the financial information. Some of it was in our hands and some of it at the D.A.'s. Nobody knows what happened or how long any of it's been gone. I _do_ know I'm going to get to the bottom of that!"

The judge leveled his gaze at the detective and said, "Evidence just doesn't disappear, Frank."

"I know, Milt, an inside job, but we haven't figured it out yet."

Reaching for more cookies on the table, McCormick feigned shock and lifted both his eyebrows until they disappeared under his unruly hair. "_What_? Crooked cops? Here in LA?" He went on, "Who's Riley? And _WHY _didn't you tell me about the trial?" impatiently again to the judge

"Enough already, McCormick! Don't talk with your mouth full!" said the judge with a glare. "I didn't tell you about the trial 'cause it's not a big deal."

"No big deal, huh? Hmmm, murder? Missing evidence, threats, crooked cops? Sure sounds like it's a big deal to me, Judge," replied Mark. He was angry and even a little hurt that the judge had kept this from him. He didn't understand why. Hardcastle had, over the last year or so, dragged him into all sorts of situations with his own personal 'need to know' policy, but if this was no big deal, what was going on?

"I'm just going in to testify, for crying out loud! Probably won't even take a day to do it."

"Which is another thing I wanted to talk to you about, Milt," said Frank, knowing full well where this discussion was going to end up.

"Talk to me about what?"

"Well, word's out that Tilton isn't planning on going to jail. With that missing evidence and the threats the first time around, we're putting protection on you and Riley till it's over." The detective mentally braced himself.

"That's ridiculous!" exploded Hardcastle "I don't need protection!"

"Unfortunately, the D.A. and I don't agree with you and they're probably already parked out front," he replied, keeping his tone neutral.

Mark was sitting up now. "Hardcase, just what _did _you have to do with all this? I mean you were a judge-judge then, right? Not a cop. And who exactly was murdered?"

"It's a long story, kid."

"Yeah, well I got the time—it's not like I can cut the grass anytime soon or anything," Mark said with a slight smirk.

Hardcastle just closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that Mark wasn't going to move till he got some information and maybe not even then. In the past years, the kid got pretty good at reading between the lines. He _was_ going to tell him about the trial, but not until a day or two before so the kid wouldn't worry. He had an irritatingly persistent way of _hovering_ when something was going on.

"Here's the short version so you can get back to work doing something around here. Seems like Tilton was involved in some deals that weren't exactly 'up to snuff' on Wall Street or anywhere else for that matter. Nobody could ever really prove anything until a sharp IRS agent picked up on a few things. He gave me a call and I met with him and Riley, who was the prosecutor's investigator at the time. He handed over some of the evidence, but before he could get me the rest, he was found floating off a pier in LA harbor. The poor guy never really knew what he was getting into. Left behind a wife and four kids."

"Yeah, but Tilton was sloppy," interjected Frank, "he left two fingerprints, and that evidence we still got."

"At least that's something," growled the judge. "Any ideas who the inside man might be?"

"Nope," said Frank, shaking his head, "I put Millward and Stern on it; I can trust them."

"Well, Frank, I'll find the copies of the records I made and I'll bring them along in the morning."

"_COPIES_?" exclaimed Frank. "You have _copies_?"

"Sure, they're in a box in the garage." Hardcastle didn't understand Frank's incredulous look. He had all kinds of copies in old case files.

"Milt, the D.A. is gonna kiss you when he finds out!"

"I wanna see that!" laughed McCormick, getting a dirty look from the judge. The D.A., Dean Thompson, was not one of Hardcastle's favorite people.

"The D.A. may not be able to use them in court by Monday, but at least he'll know where to go and get something more concrete. That settles it. The squad stays. If Tilton even had a notion that you have those records, he'd be all over you and this place like cats on fish," said Frank.

"I don't need protection!" bellowed the judge. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself!"

"Hardcase, that's what you said the last time, right before we had to replace most of the windows and plaster in here, not to mention having you bunk in the gatehouse till the work was done. And what about me?" Mark said. "Every time _you_ don't need protection, _I'm_ the one who winds up dodging the bullets!" He was still trying to understand why the judge hadn't even mentioned the upcoming trial, and now he was more concerned because of what Frank was implying with the need for police protection.

"McCormick!"

Frank held his arm up and decided to end the discussion. "HOLD IT! Until the evidence is in and your testimony is done, the squad stays! No argument! That's it! Final, finis! We want to get this guy don't we?"

"But..." started Hardcastle

"No buts! I'm heading home now. I'll call Thompson when I get there and I'll call you first thing in the morning." Frank had gotten up and was heading for the door. As he was walking, he looked over his shoulder, adding, "And don't bother to try and get rid of the squad out front. I told those boys what I would be having them do for their next assignment if they left here." With that, he was gone.

The room was silent with unspoken tension.

"Look, McCormick, I _was _going to tell you about the trial but not until Sunday," the judge finally said, looking directly at him. "I just didn't want this turning into a circus like it is." Walking out of the den, he grumbled, "I'll be in the garage."

And then Mark was alone, an uneasy feeling surrounding him. Sitting thoughtfully for a few minutes, he reached for the phone.

A little over an hour later, in the garage, the judge was poking about in various boxes, looking for the copies. Mark walked in the side door, pulling a light jacket a little closer around him. He paused for a moment then headed toward the judge. _Here we go_, he thought. With a lighthearted tone he said, "Man I hate this time of year; it sure is getting cold out there." When there was no response he went on, "I made our boys in blue some coffee; sure am glad I'm not the one sitting in a car all night." Nosing around, he started peering and digging into the boxes. "How do you ever manage to find anything in this disaster?"

"What do you mean, disaster? I know where everything is out here! And leave that stuff alone!"

"Oh, so that's why you've been out here for over an hour."

"McCormick, if I would have needed your help, I would have asked for it. Don't you have something better to do?" Hardcastle knew by the look on Mark's face that he had something on his mind or something to say, and he figured it was both.

"Not anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just got off the phone and cancelled my plans for this weekend."

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"Well I can't very well be relaxing with a beautiful girl and babysitting you at the same time. As much as it might be fun to have you come along, I thought about it for three seconds and decided it wouldn't."

Hardcastle's glare could have pinned McCormick to the wall but Mark didn't back down. The kid almost never did. That was one of the things about him that endeared him to the judge, and frequently infuriated him.

"Look, kiddo, I don't need you or anybody else sitting around watching me and holding my hand. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a grown up and…"

"Blah, blah, blah, Judge," Mark interrupted, "quit being such a donkey. If Frank and the D.A. are concerned enough to keep cops on your hide, then there's more to this guy, Tilton, than you're telling me. Although for the life of me, I don't know why. I keep thinking about that IRS agent and his family." Mark was trying not to let his worry for the judge come too close to the surface, knowing how the older man would react.

"I know they're the ones that deserve justice," there was a hint of sadness in the judge's voice, but that changed quickly when he turned back to the boxes, shouting at McCormick, "Well, you just call your girlfriend again and go ahead with your plans!"

"No can do, Kemo Sabe," Mark said with a frown, "she was a little upset and said something about changing her phone number before she hung up on me. Besides, there are three days till the trial starts; you'll just be sitting around here brooding and you'll probably need somebody to yell at," he finished off with a smirk.

Rolling his eyes, the judge groused, "You're not going to let go of this are you?"

"Nope."

Hardcastle sighed. His safety _was_ in danger. Also, he knew that if Mark was with him and there was an attempt on his life, the kid was in danger too. Mark would try to protect him at all costs. Aside from having backbone, Mark was loyal to a fault. The kid had proved that over and over again. And if McCormick even had an inkling about the man he intended to get a conviction on, there would be something akin to the national guard on the front lawn, not just a couple of cops. That's why he hadn't yet told him about the trial. McCormick wasn't even around when the thing with Tilton started, but Tilton wouldn't care. The judge would never say it, but he _was_ scared. Not afraid of Tilton, but afraid of what Tilton could do. Looking at Mark, the judge could see mixed emotions on the young man's face. But the blue eyes were crystal clear and determined underneath that mop of curly hair. It had been a long time since he cared about anybody, and that's what probably scared him the most.

He abruptly started for the door. "Well, I found what I need and I'm going back in the house. Look, kiddo, Tilton is slimy but we've come up against his kind of slime before. He's gonna get what's coming to him as we're gonna give it to him." Walking out the door he said, "If you're gonna come along in the morning, you'd better get some sleep. We've got an early appointment with the D.A.," as he walked to the house.

Mark mumbled to himself, "Well that went better than I thought it would."

Right after he cancelled his date, he had called Frank Harper to get more of the details on Samuel Tilton. So the judge was wrong; he _did _have more than an inkling of what was going on. Harper was reluctant to give many details, but relented when Mark kept pressing. Frank told Mark that the other two murders Tilton was suspect in were both people who had been close to exposing him. He also told him details about Tilton's various other shady dealings that gave more insight into the man Hardcastle was up against. Harper was adamant in requiring that security stay with the judge so nothing happened to him, and Mark had agreed.

After a moment's hesitation, Frank had continued, "The agent's son, just a teenager, he was up in Milt's face right after the funeral. Accused him of getting his father killed. Milt just stood there and took it." Mark nodded to himself. He could understand that kind of anger—misplaced as it was—the feeling that the world was brutally unfair, the need to hit out at the nearest person. He knew the judge would've understood that as well, and that, one way or another, that kid would have justice yet.

McCormick hadn't liked what he was hearing and knew he'd be at the judge's side till it was over, whether he liked it or not. Knowing what he now knew, the judge's actions were pretty predictable. _He's trying to_ _protect me when he's the one that needs protection, he really is a_ _donkey_. He was also aware that the last thing Judge Milton C. Hardcastle wanted was to be seen as vulnerable. But underneath all that bravado, he knew the judge was uneasy.

Mark shrugged and sighed, "It's gonna be a long weekend."

**00000**

McCormick came through the kitchen door the next morning again pulling at his jacket as the judge was putting some breakfast together.

"Brrr, it's still cold out."

"Eat up and let's get going," groused the judge.

"What? No usual cheery 'Good Morning, McCormick'?" he asked, as he picked up a cup of coffee. Looking over the table he saw the usual morning paper and a large envelope. He assumed it was the file that Hardcastle had found the day before. Looking toward the chair, he noticed the Judge's handgun hanging next to his jacket. _Well looks like_ _he's ready_, Mark thought to himself.

"Look, kid, I just want to get this whole thing over with."

The phone rang before Mark could say anything and Hardcastle picked it up.

"Yeah!" he shouted into the phone.

"What no 'good morning'?" said the detective on the other end.

"Not you, too, this morning, Frank," said Hardcastle, looking annoyed.

"Milt, the D.A. is expecting you at nine," said Frank, turning a deaf ear to the judge. "The men out front are probably already done changing shifts and the new guys will follow you and McCormick down there. I'll be waiting out front."

"Frank, I don't think that Tilton is going to try anything."

"Look, Milt, like I said yesterday, we want this guy, and if it means listening to you gripe for the next few days, that's what I'm going to do. We're going to keep you and Riley safe."

"Any news on the missing evidence?"

Mark perked up when he heard this question and moved around pretending to need something, trying to overhear more of that part of the conversation. Hardcastle noticed his move and, irritated, turned away with the phone.

"No, and I got good people I can trust on this, but nothing's breaking." Harper sounded frustrated.

"Well if you want…" the judge started.

"Milt! The only thing I want right now is you down at the D.A.'s office!" Frank's voice came thundering out of the phone. The _last_ thing he wanted right now was Hardcastle barreling into that investigation.

McCormick had no trouble hearing that, and grinned broadly behind the judge's back.

"Okay, Okay! We're going already," Hardcastle yelled into the phone and hung up.

He turned to McCormick, but before he could say anything, Mark was halfway out the door with a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth. Under his arm was the large envelope that had been sitting on the table.

Back in his office, Frank called the D.A. and let him know that both his key witnesses were on their way and that he would be out front to meet them.

The judge walked out the door a few minutes later, his mood matching the red of the racecar parked near the door. Mark was sitting inside, waiting.

"Come on, Judge, don't want to be late," McCormick said breezily.

Hardcastle got in, grumbling about the fact that he was more than capable of driving himself anywhere he wanted to go. He held up another envelope, exactly like the one Mark had grabbed. "If you want to be _helpful_, at least make sure you grab the right stuff!"

Mark looked at the two envelopes, baffled. "If you've got the copies, what's in here?" He opened it and pulled out a bunch of receipts. "Huh?"

"Those are from the car parts I bought yesterday, idiot! Do you think I'd just leave those files out in the open?"

"Oh, um…."

"Just shut up and drive, McCormick!" the Judge snapped as he got in the car.

Mark started the car and pulled away from the house. Neither of them had stopped to speak with the new officers who had come on duty. The squad was right behind them as they left the drive and turned onto the highway.

Over the hum of the engine, the silence in the car could have been cut with a knife. Mark pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was tired, but would never tell the Judge that he had stayed awake all night watching for anything out of the ordinary through his darkened windows.

"Look, Hardcase, it's only for a couple of days," McCormick said, as he tried to placate the judge. "You'll testify, Tilton will get what he deserves, and justice will prevail for everybody."

Hardcastle looked at him out of the corner of his eye; something was up.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, somebody's got to be able to get this guy. From what Frank said…" McCormick suddenly stopped, realizing what he was saying.

"What do you mean, 'from what Frank said'?" The Judge turned his full attention to McCormick.

"Uh oh…" mumbled McCormick. He paused, thinking if he were five hundred miles away from Hardcastle right now, he might live through this conversation, but decided to just get it over with. "Look, I called him last night. You obviously weren't going to tell me anything and I wanted to know what we were up against."

"Oh, _really_." There was an ominous tone to Hardcastle's voice.

"Now wait a minute!" said Mark "I called Frank. So what? You're gonna get mad at me and sentence me to more yard work? Don't think you can do that, Hardcase; there's not much more I can do and still sleep three hours a night so I can get up and do it all over again."

McCormick looked over at Hardcastle and saw him staring straight ahead, his lips drawn tight.

"You _could_ have told me what an absolute slime ball Tilton really is," he decided to continue, figuring he was driving the car and probably was safe from the judge doing him any physical harm. "No wonder Frank is so worried about his two star witnesses." The silence continued. "Jeez, Judge, I know how important it is to you to get this guy, but your not telling me anything isn't going to help do that. That IRS agent and his kid deserve justice—and yeah, Frank told me about the funeral, too." He flipped his eyes back to Hardcastle.

"Watch the road, McCormick"

Never one to keep what was on his mind to himself, Mark kept on. "I thought what we did was a team effort." He rolled his eyes and continued, "Great, now _I'm_ starting to sound like some whacked out basketball coach." Glancing at Hardcastle he asked, "Why all the secrecy?"

Hardcastle was still grim but sighed. "I just didn't want you to get too involved in this one, kiddo. Tilton's bad news."

"I'm touched; I didn't know you cared," Mark said with a grin.

"Yeah, well, even mediocre help is hard to come by and I don't want to have to start over." Hardcastle relaxed a little and was looking out the side window.

Shaking his head at the expected comeback, Mark said, "If I've learned anything over the past months it's that to get garbage like Tilton, sometimes it _IS_ a group effort. Never thought you'd hear me say that hey, Hardcase? Well I am and I mean it. The most important thing for you to do is testify and get it right so this one's done. Let somebody else watch your back. It's not going to hurt you to do that. It's your word and Riley's against this creep right now. You've got to be there to say it."

The rest of the ride down to the D.A.'s office was subdued. Mark was keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings and keeping the squad car in the rear view mirror. Glancing at the judge occasionally, trying not to let him notice, he was amused to see Hardcastle doing the same.

Outside he was calm, but inside Hardcastle was still fuming. He was angry at the whole situation. Tilton _was_ going to go to jail. He would see to that. But he didn't like being a target of a person he considered to be just a two-bit hood.

They finally pulled around the corner onto the street where the office was. Mark was none to happy to see that there was no parking anywhere. He slowed down, double-checked, and saw nothing.

"Look, Judge, there's Frank. Who's the guy next to him, Riley?" nodding at the guy standing there next to Harper. He was noticeably nervous.

"Yeah, that's him; he doesn't look too good."

Two uniformed officers rounded out the group on the sidewalk.

"I'll drop you off. You wait for me okay?"

Mumbling the judge said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Mark pulled the car over as close as he could. The judge climbed out and Mark said, "Hey, there's a spot opening up over there, be right back." He turned the car from the curb, executed the u-turn and slid into the open spot. Glancing down as he removed the keys, he saw one of the envelopes on the seat. Thinking quickly, he wondered if the judge had the right one. Not pausing to check the contents, he grabbed it, climbing out of the car heading across the wide street. He didn't want Hardcastle out in the open without him any longer than he already had been.

Seeing McCormick coming, Hardcastle turned, motioning for the others to follow. They had just started to walk toward the front entrance when they heard the squeal of tires. Spinning around simultaneously, they saw the squad that had been following them barreling down on Mark.

"Look out, kid!" screamed the judge, his heart in his throat. Everything was happening with lightening speed. Mark froze for a moment, then, leapt to one side, falling against the Coyote.

The squad car screeched to a halt within inches of McCormick and both doors on the driver's side flew open. A large man dressed in a police uniform, wearing a black mask jumped out of the car, grabbing Mark. He slugged him and roughly threw his body into the back seat. He seemed to ricochet back into the front seat and the tires smoked again sending the car forward. Nobody had any time to react. At the same time the rear window came down, showing the business end of a machine gun that started firing at anything and everything in the vicinity.

"GET DOWN! EVERYBODY!" Frank Harper threw himself at Hardcastle, knocking him down into cover behind his own car.

Car windows were exploding from the impact of bullets. They imbedded themselves in metal, tires and concrete. The bullets kept coming even as the car sped around the corner, finally stopping when it was out of sight.

The judge pushed himself off the ground just in time to see the taillights vanish. He was having trouble getting air as he realized just what had happened. "McCormick!..."

Harper made a move for his car, stopping when he saw the tires. It wasn't going anywhere. He reached in and grabbed the radio and began issuing orders.

The other officers had run for their squad, weapons drawn but immediately recognized the same problem. Even the Coyote parked across the street was riddled with holes the tires still hissing air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I said, stop it!" Hardcastle's bellow brought an eerie silence to the group. The well-meaning hands that had been trying to hustle him to some sort of safety were stilled. The jumble of placating words that had been meant to reassure were halted. They had been badly missing their mark, anyway.

He scanned their faces. All worried, to be sure, but it was a professional concern. Criminals shouldn't be able to go on a shooting rampage and kidnap an innocent civilian right in front of the District Attorney's office; it offended them. They were interested in protecting the 'victim', no matter who it might've been. None of them was concerned with _Mark_. He swiveled slowly, surveying the area, looking for the one who would understand. Then he felt the hand on his arm.

"Frank." His eyes met the detective's and he saw his own fear mirrored there.

"We're doing what we can," Harper said, knowing baseless reassurance was not what Hardcastle needed to hear.

"I need a car."

"I know," Harper replied with a nod. "C'mon." When Hardcastle looked at him quizzically, he continued, "You can't very well go alone, not after this. I'm gonna be your shadow for a while." He managed a grin. "Besides, it's a police vehicle."

Hardcastle couldn't force a grin, but he didn't argue, which Harper considered a success. The lieutenant began to steer the judge toward a side parking lot where their car would be waiting. They had almost cleared the gathered crowd when suddenly Dean Thompson was before them.

"Judge."

"What is it?" Hardcastle snapped.

"I can hold on to the files for now, and we can get together later to discuss your testimony." Thompson was reaching out to take the files, completely unprepared for the single word response.

"No."

"What?"

"I'm sure you heard me, Counselor. I said, no."

Even Harper was surprised. "It would be safer, Milt."

The judge faced his friend. "I might need them."

"Milt " the sadness in the detective's tone was unmistakable. "You can't--"

"Don't tell me I can't, Frank. These are my personal records, and I'm under no legal obligation to surrender them." He turned back to Thompson. "We'll talk about your case when I get McCormick back."

"I can subpoena them," Thompson threatened.

"You can _try_," Hardcastle countered. He stared at the D.A. for several long seconds before issuing one final statement. "But I promise you this: I am not an enemy you want to make."

Harper caught up with him a couple of minutes later, waiting impatiently by the only unattended double-parked vehicle in the lot.

"I assume this is the one?" the judge asked as the lieutenant came around the corner.

"Yeah." Harper unlocked the passenger door. "You know, you really shouldn't threaten a District Attorney," he admonished as he rounded the car. He slid in behind the wheel, then looked over at Hardcastle, ignoring the anger on the jurist's face. "I'm serious, Milt. I think I smoothed it over for now, but you cannot be going at him like that. Like him or not, he does represent the entire office, you know, and that's an enemy _you_ don't want to make. Forget long term implications here; you might need their help in _this_ situation."

"Do you think you can drive and lecture me at the same time?"

The detective chuckled slightly as he started the engine, then pulled the car out of the lot, but he sobered quickly. "We've only had one sighting of the car, Milt. It was headed southbound on the 405, but by the time the northbound unit got turned around to follow, it was gone. That was around Century, or maybe El Segundo. We think they probably dropped off the freeway right around there, when they realized they'd been spotted."

"You don't think they're headin' for the airport?" Hardcastle asked, a new panic on his face.

"I don't think so," Harper reassured him quickly. "There's no way this isn't about Tilton, and there's just no reason for him to take Mark out of town. Whether he wants to use him to make a trade or- - " the lieutenant broke off abruptly.

"Or to make an example," the judge grated out.

Harper didn't try to argue the possibility. "Whatever his plan, it doesn't make sense for him to leave town. But, of course, we've alerted airport security, just in case. If Tilton, Mark, or that car, show up out there, we'll know about it. In the meantime, we've stepped up patrols in the area and I've sent some guys around to rattle Tilton's cage a little. We're gonna visit some of his favorite goons, too. We'll find out what there is to know. So, do you want to stick with the car, or do you want to join in the cage rattling?"

"McCormick's in the car," Hardcastle said simply.

Harper nodded, and steered the car toward the 405.

They drove in silence for a while, then the judge asked, "Who do you think was in the car?"

"I'm not sure," the lieutenant replied sullenly. "We've got a unit on its way over to your place to check things out there. You know," he continued quietly, "I hand-picked the guys for that detail myself; I think they're on the level. But if they are..." he trailed off, not wanting to think about what might be waiting out in Malibu.

"Yeah." Hardcastle knew only too well what Tilton was capable of.

They lapsed back into silence, broken a moment later by the squawk of the radio calling for Harper's attention. He grabbed the microphone. "Yeah, Harper."

"Unit 349 has been located," the tinny voice responded. "Unit 217 is holding, in La Fresa, intersection of Artesia and Crenshaw."

Harper whipped the car in the right direction and punched the accelerator. "Have they requested an ambulance or. . ." he glanced quickly over at the judge, "any other services?"

"They have requested the coroner's unit, Lieutenant," the dispatcher replied, and Harper heard Hardcastle's sharp intake of breath. "Officers on scene report one unidentified male body."

"Unidentified?" Harper repeated.

"Yes, sir. They report it definitely is not the missing kidnap victim."

Harper heard the judge let out the breath he'd been holding, and he felt a moment of relief, but it was short-lived. Thank God the body wasn't Mark, but the young man was still missing, and he had been separated from the only possible link to his location that they'd had. He focused on procedure. "Dispatch a crime lab team to the location, as well as two other patrols. I want a sweep for witnesses; five mile radius. I'm on my way now; ETA fifteen minutes."

Pointing the car in the right direction, Harper cast a look at Hardcastle. "It's a place to start," he said softly. It was difficult to reassure someone who knew far too much.

"Yeah, sure," the judge agreed, without conviction. He turned to stare out at the passing traffic. "Either that, or the end of the road."

**00000**

Lieutenant Harper was listening to a second report from the officer on site. It had only taken about forty-five seconds of the first one to make clear that there really wasn't much _to_ report, so why he was being subjected to this re-hashing was something of a mystery. Besides, his true attention was focused across the parking lot where Hardcastle—having already been admonished several times—was doing his best to stay out of the way but still hear everything that was going on. In other circumstances, the lieutenant might have been amused to watch the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle put in his place by young lab techs and street cops, but the helplessness showing on the face of his friend took away any possible humor. He dismissed the officer with a curt, "Carry on," and crossed the lot to the judge.

"There's blood on the back seat, Frank," Hardcastle whispered almost frantically as the officer approached. Only twenty minutes earlier they had learned of the deaths of the officers who had been stationed at his home. Counting the guy in the trunk of the stolen car, that was three dead this morning alone. It was clear that the men who took McCormick would not hesitate to kill, and the news had only heightened the judge's fear for his young friend.

Harper nodded. "I know, but not much. He was clobbered pretty bad when they grabbed him, Milt; we all saw it. There's no reason to think it's anything more than that. If they just wanted to kill him, they could've done it at the D.A.'s office, or, at the very least, we would've found him here with the car. It wouldn't be much of an example if they didn't leave him behind. It's looking more like they intend to keep him around a while." He knew that wasn't the most encouraging idea, but it was better than the alternative.

The judge nodded slowly, knowing the detective was correct, but finding no comfort in the knowledge. He felt his hands clenching around the manila envelope he still carried, clinging to it like some kind of lifeline. Which, he supposed, it might actually be. "Maybe we should go see Tilton now," he suggested in a low tone.

Harper took a moment to examine his friend closely. The tension radiated from every tightened muscle in his body, and the helpless expression that had been growing over the last hour and a half was backed by a fury deeper than he had ever seen in those blue eyes. Maybe this wasn't the best time to let him talk to the prime suspect in McCormick's kidnapping. "Maybe we should head back to Gull's Way," he finally replied.

"Why?" Hardcastle demanded. "So you can keep me safely under wraps? That lunatic has McCormick, and I intend to do something about it."

Certainly, keeping Hardcastle contained was one upside of going back to the estate, but Harper had no intention of admitting it. Instead, he stuck with the more practical benefits. "Since we agree that Tilton is going to try and use Mark for leverage, it only makes sense that he's gonna need to contact you, Milt. You should be home to take that call."

"Why wait for him to call?" the jurist pressed. "Let's just go on over there, and I'll talk to him in person."

Harper reached out to restrain him as Hardcastle began a determined stomp back toward the car. "Milt. It's not like he's gonna have Mark sitting in his den having tea. The man probably wouldn't even talk to you. And, besides . . ."

"Besides what?" Hardcastle snapped when the detective's words trailed off.

"You're not in good shape, Milt. You shouldn't let him see you like this," Harper said quietly. "You can't give him that kind of power."

Hardcastle glared at the detective for several long seconds, but then his shoulders slumped as he seemed to lose some of his determination. "Okay," he agreed, "I'll go back home and wait for his call. And I'll get myself together. But, Frank?" he paused, almost afraid to say the words, even to Harper. He breathed deeply. "What if he already has the power?"

**00000**

Mark McCormick concentrated on concentrating. Realistically, though, he didn't expect to learn much in his present condition. Hands and feet bound, shoved onto the back floorboard of a speeding car, with a cloth sack over his head, his powers of observation were a bit hampered. Still, he could listen, and that had to be worth something. Right now, though, there wasn't much to hear.

When he'd first come to in the back of the police cruiser, there had been a lot of frantic conversation, mainly centered around whether or not Hardcastle had been hurt in their attack. His heart had skipped a beat as he held his breath and waited to hear the story.

"The boss didn't want him hurt," one voice had loudly accused.

"And I'm tellin' ya," a second voice had responded just as loudly, "I just scared him, is all."

And though his head had been fuzzy and his jaw ached like hell, McCormick had felt only relief at hearing the words.

The three men in the car had continued their conversation for several minutes before the one in the backseat had noticed their captive was awake. McCormick didn't even have time to register the gun that came crashing down against the side of his head, sending him back into darkness.

When he had awakened the second time, he had been trussed into his current position. He wasn't sure, but he thought they had changed cars. And, the infrequent but tense conversation in the car seemed to be only between two men. The third voice—the guy who had not hurt Hardcastle with his shooting—seemed to be the one missing, and McCormick wondered briefly just what the penalty would be for shooting at someone "the boss" didn't want hurt.

From what he'd heard about Tilton—and who else could be behind this?—McCormick figured punishment had been meted out quickly and unfairly. He tried working up some sympathy for the missing goon, but he was having a hard time getting past the idea that the guy had been shooting at the judge.

So, unable to generate any real concern for the guy's probable early demise, he went back to his concentration. But the occasional "turn here" being muttered in the front seat really wasn't all that helpful.

He listened hard.

There was traffic, but not a lot. Only a few cars had passed them in the half hour or so that he'd been awake, so he could rule out the major freeways. Really, he could rule out most of the major surface streets, too; there just weren't all that many streets in LA without traffic this time of day. So maybe they already had him well out of town. Just how long had he been unconscious, anyway? And that's when it occurred to him that—even with all his concentrating—he really had no damned idea exactly what was going on, and it wasn't likely he was going to figure it out.

McCormick pressed his lips together roughly to keep from cursing in frustration. All things considered, he wasn't sure he was ready for the others to know he was awake just yet. But he managed to take some comfort from the fact that he _was_ awake, as well as the fact that they were trying to keep him from learning his location. Behavior like that indicated they might actually plan on keeping him alive.

As he turned his attention to trying to loosen the ropes binding his hands, McCormick followed his thoughts through to their logical conclusion. He was nothing to these guys, so if they intended to let him live, it was because of Hardcastle. They must want something from the judge. What that something was, however, was where he was getting stumped. Logically, it would seem that they would want to stop the judge from testifying. But . . . if that was all they wanted, why not just kill him when they had the opportunity?Why stage the kidnapping only to—presumably—force Hardcastle into refusing to testify? No, McCormick thought that was far too complicated. Whatever Tilton wanted, it went beyond keeping Hardcastle off the witness stand. _And I'm the leverage_, McCormick thought bitterly. He focused all his effort onto the ropes. Mark knew from experience that the judge had a long list of things he considered "wrong", ranging from improper to absolutely unthinkable. His fear was that the list might get a lot shorter while he was being held captive. He did not intend to be the cause of that.

McCormick felt the car slow into another turn, but it did not resume speed after straightening. After another few moments, he felt the car pull to a stop. _Dammit! I'm not ready._ He hadn't made nearly enough progress on his hands, which, of course, meant his feet were still bound tightly. He was in no condition to stage an escape. He felt air move through the car as the two front doors were opened, then felt sunlight as his own door was opened. Then hands reached in and grabbed him under the armpits, roughly dragging him from the car. He decided there was little to be gained by further silence.

"Hey, if you guys could untie me, this would be a lot easier on all of us." His head banged against the door as the hands holding him suddenly released their grip.

"He's awake!" a startled voice said.

"Pick 'im up," the second voice ordered. "You didn't expect him to be out forever, did ya?"

McCormick felt himself grabbed again, and he was tugged completely out of the car. Then he felt the two guys on either side of him, grabbing his arms, and pulling him along, his feet dragging the ground. "Ow! Hey, seriously; at least untie my feet and let me walk."

"Shut up." The directive was followed with a quick slap to the back of the head. McCormick shut up, and simply let himself be dragged wherever they were taking him.

He heard a door open, and then he felt the sunlight disappear again as he was pulled into a building. "Don't guess you'd want to tell me what this is all about?" he inquired, as he was shoved down into a chair. "And, for the record, I wouldn't mind getting this hood off my head. It's kinda hot in here." He felt another hand connect with his head. "Guess not," he muttered.

Then there were more ropes, and McCormick felt himself being bound to the chair. These guys were nothing if not thorough. He tried another conversation starter. "I think you might have the wrong guy, you know. I don't know who you think I am, or what you think I can do for you, but, trust me, I'm nobody. Why don't you just let me take off outta here, and we'll forget all this ever happened?"

He didn't really expect an answer, so he wasn't surprised by the silence, but then he heard a door slam, and as he listened to the room, it was clear he had been left alone.

"Well, that's just great," he mumbled, and returned his attention to trying to free his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

After a while, McCormick could no longer tell whether his hands were numb from the tightness of the rope or the penetrating cold of the place where he had been left. His efforts to free himself had achieved nothing. He now realized that unless his captors returned, he was going nowhere.

The more he thought about Tilton's actions the more baffled he became. Even the judge's secretive behavior was starting to strike Mark as more than the usual level of weirdness for Hardcastle. And then there was the matter of the envelopes.

But more than anything else, what aggravated McCormick was being relegated to the status of pawn. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the thought and felt an irresistible urge to refuse to play by the rules. It was possible that he would have a few seconds to talk to the judge by phone, under the watchful eye of Tilton's goons. Unless, of course, Tilton decided to use the time-honored alternative method of proving possession of a pawn. McCormick flexed his nearly-numb fingers experimentally, hoping he'd still have all of them at the end of the day.

_No_, he thought,_ it'll be a phone call. A finger they would have taken right away. _And then he started figuring all the angles

**00000**

Frank drove, glancing from time to time at his passenger. The judge looked gray, haggard, and not inclined to accept reassurances that everything was being done to track down the men who had snatched McCormick.

"Look," Frank said, as he turned onto the PCH, "no matter what, handing over the evidence isn't going to be enough for Tilton."

"I know that," Hardcastle replied grimly. "But he's going to insist on having the evidence, too; otherwise he would have just let his goons kill me this morning."

"What makes you think he'll let Mark go if you give him what he wants?" Frank asked sensibly, ignoring the issue that what Tilton most likely wanted was Hardcastle himself.

"Well, we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. But there's one thing I've got to know right now." The judge's eyes narrowed; his face was set. "I have to know if you're going to back me up on this one, Frank; let me do what I need to do."

"You mean, will I ignore department policy and every bit of common sense I have?"

"Yeah. Both of those, if necessary."

"Milt- -"

"It's a yes or no question, Frank."

Harper gripped the steering wheel tighter and nodded his head once, sharply. "Yes, I'll back you. I hope to God you know what that means, Milt."

"It means you're a good friend, Frank." The judge allowed himself a brief smile. "And I really need one right now."

**00000**

McCormick was already on the third version of his plan and he thought maybe this one was about as good as he could make it, which meant it would either work, or get him killed. At least he had to balance that against his increasing certainty that Tilton was a few bricks short of a full load, probably wanted the judge dead, and had no particular reason to let Mark live, either.

He'd circled this line of reasoning a couple of times when he heard the door open and the sounds of men entering the room. He froze, not that he was capable of much movement anyway. Then he felt something moving close to his head. After this morning's experiences, he had to consciously avoid flinching. A second later the cloth bag had been yanked off of him and he was blinking at the relative brightness.

An empty utility shed. It contained him, the chair he sat on, and little else, except for the two guys in ski masks who confronted him, and a small, scarred table that one of them was setting down in front of his chair.

Neither of them said anything until the one who wasn't moving furniture pulled a compact tape recorder from his coat pocket and set it down on the table. McCormick looked up at him questioningly.

"You're gonna say something. So he knows we got you," said the goon with the tape recorder.

"Yeah, he probably didn't notice when you guys grabbed me." That earned him a quick whack to the side of the head. "Look," he started speaking again, almost before the ringing in his ear subsided, "you got the wrong guy. I clean out Hardcase's gutters--"

"And you drink beer with him. And the boss says you're gonna make a tape. You do this, we get the envelope, and you get to go back to cleaning gutters. Got it?"

McCormick was so busy thinking about beer and envelopes that he almost forgot to reply until he noticed the goon raising his hand again. "Yeah, yeah," he responded hastily, "push it over here. I got a few things to say to that donkey."

The mouth hole of the ski-mask was filled with goon teeth as the guy pushed the record button.

**00000**

Hardcastle had barely unlocked the front door and ushered Frank in before they heard the phone ringing. Frank followed his dash into the den, then watched as he grabbed for the bottom drawer of the desk and not the phone. The tape recorder was out and in place before there were two more rings. The judge hit the speaker button on the sixth ring and said, "Hello?"

"Not in any hurry, huh?" the unfamiliar voice at the other end grumbled. "Maybe he's right. Listen up." Then there was a click, and a tinnier, more distant, but very familiar voice.

'You know, Hardcase, I'm flat out tired of you putting my life on the line. Hell, you've even pulled a gun on me yourself. Right now I'm thinking I have a fifty-fifty chance that you'll be able to put something together to get me out of this. You called me an idiot. I tell you, maybe you're just as much an idiot as I am, and I'm working for you? A motorhead, that's all I'll ever be to you; I think it'd have been better if I'd stayed under a car. Think real hard about what you've said the past few days. Even when I get on a winning streak, you tell me I can't possibly have all the answers. It's like the game is rigged. So maybe it's time I started making my own deals. From here on in, I'm a one man band--' There followed a sound, like a hand on the microphone, followed by a less distinct word, which might have been 'wait', then a click, and nothing.

"Okay?" the other voice was back. "So, you ready to deal?"

"No," Hardcastle barked back, ignoring Frank's surprise. "Tell your boss I won't do anything until I've talked to McCormick myself. No recordings, that won't cut it. You tell him that." Hardcastle hit the disconnect button without waiting for a reply.

Frank looked stunned. "What the hell--?"

Hardcastle shook his head once sharply, then pointed to his ear and made a lazy circling motion with the same finger that took in the whole room. Then he spoke, clearly and slowly, "I think maybe McCormick's jumped the tracks." He picked up the manila envelope from where he'd tossed it on the desk when he came in, looking at it oddly. Then he picked up the tape recorder as well, as he got up out of the chair. Frank said nothing, following him back out of the house to the car.

"Get in," Hardcastle said quietly.

They were in the vehicle. Frank watched Hardcastle open the envelope and reach inside, then watched his face go a shade paler than gray. "I _am_ an idiot," he growled, pulling out a handful of what looked like receipts and then thrusting them angrily back inside.

Frank tried to control his rising exasperation. "Milt, what the hell just happened in there? What was Mark babbling about and--?"

Hardcastle shook his head and then asked, "Do you know if the Coyote is still there? They haven't moved it yet, have they?"

Frank looked at him, saw the intensity of his interest, and hit the radio to make the necessary inquiries. No, everything was still where it had been left, an ongoing crime scene investigation.

"Good, let's go."

Frank put the car in gear without even bothering to ask why. The judge was fiddling with the recorder, rewinding back the few seconds it had taken for Mark to say what he'd said. They were pulling back out onto the PCH when Frank heard the voice again, now even more distant as a recording of a recording.

"Listen." Hardcastle said, with one finger poised over the pause button.

'_You know, Hardcase, I'm flat out tired of you putting my life on the line. Hell, you've even pulled a gun on me yourself.'_

Pause. "He started out with something obvious. To make sure I knew what the hell he was doing. What does he think; I'm an idiot?" Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead, "Never mind; don't answer that one. This is about the time we set up those ex-cops. He pretended to pick a fight with me. So that's what he doing now," Hardcastle faltered, "was doing then . . . when he made this tape." He released the pause button.

'_Right now I'm thinking I have a fifty-fifty chance that you'll be able to put something together to get me out of this. You called me an idiot. I tell you, maybe you're just as much an idiot as I am, and I'm working for you?'_

Pause again. "There were two envelopes. He grabbed the wrong one this morning. He was trying to help. I called him an idiot. They were both in the car when I got out. He thinks I grabbed the wrong one, but he's not sure. He must have picked up the other one, when he was getting out of the car."

'_A motorhead, that's all I'll ever be to you; I think it'd have been better if I'd stayed under a car_.'

"Well, this is a longer shot. He had the second envelope in his hand; the car was coming at him. He must have thrown it. He thinks it's under the Coyote. Well, hell, that's really the only place it can be, if Tilton's goons didn't get it."

'_Think real hard about what you've said the past few days. Even when I get on a winning streak, you tell me I can't possibly have all the answers. It's like the game is rigged.'_

Hardcastle looked at Frank. "You recognize this one, right? That stupid rigged game show; they bugged the house so they could be sure McCormick'd win. So he's saying he thinks the house is bugged again. Must be something they said."

"Do you want me to get some tech guys over there?" Frank asked.

"No, let it ride; we can't let them know we're on to anything." He took his finger off the pause button one last time.

'_So maybe it's time I started making my own deals.'_

He punched the stop button fiercely. Frank looked to the side. Hardcastle was staring out at the highway. After a long moment of silence he spoke, his voice low and hard. "He's planning something. He wants _me_ to step back. I'm guessing right now they've got him stashed with the middle-level help. He's looking for a way to shake up the chain of command, to try and take this thing to Tilton himself."

"How?"

Hardcastle rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Welcome to Planet McCormick. I don't know. Maybe _he _doesn't even know yet. He does this kind of thing on the fly sometimes. I'm guessing it has something to do with the envelopes. I've_ got_ to talk to him again. This is crazy dangerous."

"What, like the alternative isn't?" Frank added, practically. "And what the hell was that last line, the thing about the 'one man band'?"

There was a silence followed by a hesitant reply, "That's . . . a line from a movie."

Frank said nothing. After another moment Hardcastle continued, speaking almost to himself. "John Wayne said it." Hardcastle was staring down at the tape recorder as if he wished he could talk some sense into it, the entirely misdirected notion of a man on the edge of frustration. He turned to Frank, realizing he was still waiting for an explanation.

"It's from _They Were Expendable_. We watched it last week." Hardcastle shook his head, muttering, "He _isn't_. He ought to know that by now."

The two men rode on in silence.

**00000**

They hadn't bothered to put the hood back on him after the tape was done. Now McCormick sat alone again, studying the inside of his prison. They'd moved the table back over by the wall. He supposed he might inch his chair over there. It would be something to do. When he was done he'd be sitting tied up next to a table. That would be the extent of it.

He sighed.

Had Hardcastle heard the tape yet? More importantly, had he understood it? Mark gave this about one moment's thought and concluded 'yes'. The old donkey didn't miss much. McCormick smiled. Knowing Hardcase, he had asked for a live talk with his yardman and, if there was any justice whatsoever in the universe, he was going back to the Coyote right now to retrieve the _real_ evidence envelope.

There was only one thing that niggled in the back of Mark's mind. The goon had cut him off before he could get out the last word. He hadn't been able to say 'good-bye', and he wasn't entirely sure he'd get another chance.

**00000**

The street in front of the D.A.'s office was blocked off with police barriers and crime scene tape. Some of the TV crews had already come and gone. The D.A. himself was nowhere in sight.

The Coyote sat forlornly at the edge of the action. Normally a low riding vehicle, its shot-out tires left it practically on the pavement. It was Frank who got down on the curb side, out of sight of the investigators, and felt around underneath it, while the judge leaned against the driver's side, ready to intercept anyone who approached.

"Got it," he heard Frank announce, in a muffled voice. Hardcastle joined him on the passenger side and slipped the envelope under his own arm. "Now what?" Frank asked.

"A copier. _Not_ the one in the D.A.'s office. I'm sorry Frank; I have to have a fall back plan. But somebody in that office may be dirty. I can't let them know I've got a copy, and I sure as hell can't give the D.A. one."

"Okay. Not my office then, either." Frank walked them quickly back to his car, barely nodding to the technician who was taking measurements from the steps. "Damn, Milt, I _hate_ this."

The judge put his free hand on Frank's shoulder. "I know, but just maybe we're going to have somebody on the inside of Tilton's set-up pretty soon."

"You think that?" Frank looked more closely at his friend's face. He still looked worried, but some of the color was back. "I dunno--"

"You've got to have a little faith." Hardcastle added, "If anybody can do it, he can."

**00000**

It had to be mid-afternoon, McCormick thought, based on little more than the number of times he had gone over the various contingencies that might arise. He hadn't heard any cars coming or going right away, from which he concluded that there was another building, with a phone, nearby.

Add to this the persistent, infernal cold, the sharpness of the air, and the fact that nobody had bothered to gag him at any point. _We're up in the mountains, probably northeast of the city. A long way from wherever Tilton is. _And nowhere anyone else would think to look for him, either.

_I'm going to be neglected to death._

This was when he heard the distant crunch of tires on pebbled dirt, and the approach of a car with the earliest sounds of muffler trouble. Not the car he had arrived in, he was sure of that. And, while it was entirely possible that it was the man who'd come to fetch the finger, Mark felt some infinitesimally small surge of hope.

**00000**

It was a quick stop at the office supply store and three dollars worth of copying. Then Frank and Milt were back on the road to Gull's Way, with the judge checking his watch every couple of minutes. It was nearly two o'clock, a little more than two hours since the first phone call. Too many variables, too many contingencies. He needed to be there for that second phone call, if it was going to come at all.

**00000**

Hope, followed almost immediately by a single gunshot. _Handgun, .38, most likely,_ he catalogued it automatically. Then there were footsteps coming toward the shed and he didn't have much more time for thought.

One man without a mask was followed, deferentially, by another, who'd rolled his up like an ordinary cap, revealing an unimpressive dull face. He'd been the furniture mover, McCormick was fairly certain. Now he was wearing a pair of leather gloves and carrying a Polaroid camera. The man in the lead was dressed sharply; that was an eight-hundred-dollar overcoat with a .38 caliber bulge in the right pocket.

_It would have been better if I'd had a chance to say 'good-bye', _he thought briefly, but the gun stayed in the man's pocket.

"Mr. McCormick." The man was looking him up and down, with hooded eyelids and a look of faint disdain on his face. It couldn't have been a very impressed assessment at this point. "One of my former employees seems to have made a grave mistake." The man shook his head slowly. "Now I would like you to explain the comments you made earlier today."

"_Comments_?" Mark began on a note of incredulity. "Oh, you mean sounding off to Hardcase? Yeah, well, you can take that and--"

The other goon had taken a step forward. The man with the gun in his pocket waved him back.

"Well, anyway," McCormick went on, in a calmer voice, keeping one wary eye on the goon, "what the hell do you expect me to say to that donkey? 'Thank you for keeping me in the dark and letting me know jack about what's going on?' On a _good_ day with him I just get called an idiot, kidnapped, and beaten up."

"So you think maybe you can do better with me?"

McCormick gave the man a long slow look, then glanced over at the goon, then back at him, and said, "Hell, I know I can do _worse; _I've seen your retirement program in action. But I think I've got something you need." McCormick paused.

The man in the overcoat raised his eyebrows speculatively. "What might you have, and what do you want?"

"I have a file, Hardcastle's file, with the name 'Tilton' on it: copies of memos, financial records."

"Copies?"

"Unique, I believe; he hasn't had time to make copies of the copies," McCormick added quickly. "A police lieutenant showed up at Hardcastle's door yesterday, talked to him about the case, and some missing evidence." The man nodded, McCormick went on, "Hardcastle got all excited. He keeps a lot of files, you know. He was rummaging around in them like a crazy man yesterday, put together an envelope full of stuff--nearly bit my head off when it looked like I picked it up this morning."

"'Looked like'?"

"He didn't know I'd already pulled a switch, real early this morning. I put another envelope in its place, one he'd left lying around, so if he happened to look he'd just think he'd gotten confused and misplaced the first one." McCormick allowed himself a smile of self-satisfaction.

"And the original envelope is--"?

"Safe," McCormick grinned, "and accessible."

"And negotiable?" The man added.

"That, too."

"Hmm. You may be more useful to me than I had originally thought. But before we get to that end of the deal, I have another very important task for you."

McCormick said nothing, but tried to look willing. Willing turned to nervous as the goon put the camera down on the table and stepped forward.

"Battered, but not unconscious," the overcoat man instructed, like he was ordering a meal. "After this," he nodded at McCormick, "we'll make a phone call. And you will be very convincing."

**00000**

Hardcastle had forgotten how much he hated the 'meanwhile, back at the ranch' part of a kidnapping. It had taken him all of five minutes to take out another manila envelope and put the second copies in it. Now he sat at the desk, studying the phone, willing it to ring.

Frank had returned from the kitchen with coffee and sandwiches. "Eat. You're gonna wish you had later on."

Hardcastle did as he was told, not having any appetite but also not having the energy to argue about it. Then he went back to watching the phone.

**00000**

He was in a house, on the floor, not quite sure how he'd gotten there. He thought he hadn't passed out until the goon cut the ropes and stood him up, _after_ the beating. So technically the guy hadn't violated his boss's orders. _Good, 'cause otherwise Tilton might run out of goons._

There was someone moving around, out of his line of sight, and instructions being given. He remembered the flash of light right before they'd untied him. _Oh, great, pictures. _He'd hoped to stave off the phone call for a little while, till he could get his head together and remember the script, but now he'd have to get it done before that photo made it to Hardcastle's doorstep. There was no way the judge would think he was still in control here once he saw that. _You are still in control here, aren't you? Yes,_ some little part of his mind reassured him.

He waited patiently until the goon left, then managed a groan of returning consciousness, executed subtly and with great verisimilitude.

**00000**

The phone rang.

Hardcastle punched the speaker button and the record switch simultaneously, not waiting for a second ring. Frank froze where he'd been pacing, halfway between the desk and the doorway. The judge said, "Hello?"

"Hi, Hardcase," it was McCormick, this time without the tinny overlay of a tape recorder, but with an edge of fatigue to his voice that hadn't been there earlier. "Just listen a minute, will ya? I need to tell you something and I don't want you to go off yelling at me. See, maybe I was a little out of line this morning and, well, you know being smart-mouthed is kind of like riding a bicycle or skipping stones; it comes back to you real quick, you don't have to dig down very far to find it."

After a scant moment the judge replied, "Yeah, I understand that."

"Yeah, well, I hoped you would. Anyway," he plunged ahead, "I hope I didn't mess things up too much between us--dammit, will ya give me a sec?" And some muffled sounds. It took a moment for Hardcastle to realize the last words had not been addressed to him. "Listen, he says you'll get another call later tonight. Wait- -" Then the line went dead.

Hardcastle sat there listening to the silence for a moment then got up. Frank followed him out into the hallway, and then back through the house to the patio. The judge stood there for a few moments, saying nothing, staring out toward the ocean.

"Well?" Frank finally interrupted, "Now what?"

Hardcastle jerked himself back from wherever his mind had been, fixed Frank with a look of decision, and announced, "I need a large ziplock bag and a shovel."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

McCormick scanned the small room slowly, not really moving his head. It appeared to be an unused spare bedroom. A twin bed covered with a plain brown spread was pushed against one wall, an equally non-descript nightstand sitting next to it. The bed didn't give the impression of being freshly made, rather it simply seemed idle, and Mark was certain the two drawer dresser on the opposite wall was empty. The armchair in which he sat—and its mate sitting not far from him—seemed out of place, and he decided they'd been brought in for just this occasion. The one small window was covered completely with heavy beige drapes, blocking any trace of the outside world.

All in all, not very cozy, but he was glad they had decided not to drag him back out to the shed. It was warmer here in the house, and this chair was much more comfortable than the straight-back he'd been tied to earlier. Besides, he thought the cushy side padding was probably the only thing keeping him from falling over at the moment.

When he had first been left alone here after the rather memorable photo shoot, McCormick had rejoiced at being left untied, thinking he might have the opportunity to escape. But that had been before he tried to get up off the floor. The speed with which his muscles had collapsed beneath him made clear that photography wasn't really his jailer's natural calling.

After a few moments of breathing through the pain, he had tried again to stand, but had finally settled for making it to his hands and knees, then dragging himself the short distance across the floor and up into this chair. Then he had sat, ragged breaths coming far too quickly, trying to assess the damage.

There was blood on the floor where he'd been lying, and his face hurt like hell, so a bloody nose and busted lip seemed almost a certainty. He traced his fingers gingerly across his face and felt the damp stickiness that confirmed his suspicions. He winced as he brushed across the various gashes and lumps. He also couldn't see so well out of the left eye, but the lid was too swollen to easily determine if it had actually been cut open.

His arms and legs seemed intact, the benefit, he supposed, of being tied safely out of the way during the beating. Tilton's goon had shown a definite preference for blows to the torso, and he thought it would be something of a miracle if there wasn't a cracked rib or two.

He had been in the middle of this physical inventory when Tilton and his henchman had reentered the room. Despite the futility of the effort, McCormick had tried to rise quickly to his feet, hoping to somehow take advantage of the open door. The beefy goon had actually snickered when McCormick plopped helplessly back down into the chair, so when he had approached with the portable phone, the prisoner had snaked out his foot to trip the guy, then kicked him in the shin when he stumbled. The childish maneuver had accomplished nothing—except earning another whack to the side of the head—but McCormick had felt better afterward. And Tilton had laughed. McCormick thought that might be handy somewhere down the line.

After the phone call, Tilton and his goon had left him alone again, and now—probably close to an hour after he had grated out his few words to Hardcastle—McCormick thought he might be ready to try walking again. He pushed himself out of the chair, waited a few seconds, then took a tentative step away from its support. _Okay, still standing. Perfect._

He walked slowly across the room and—for no reason other than the fear of being stupidly held captive in an unlocked room—tried the doorknob. Not surprisingly, it was locked, but at least he knew for sure.

He continued a slow tour around the room, taking everything in, though there wasn't much to see. As he walked, he thought back to the phone call. He was pretty sure Hardcastle was still on the same page with him about the documents; that would be critical. He thought briefly that he might be risking a lot for only "pretty sure", but the judge hadn't let him down yet. It seemed unlikely he would start now.

Just as important, Hardcastle still sounded okay. Not too tense, so Frank must be keeping him under control. _Of course, he hasn't seen the pictures yet,_ he thought. But at least the donkey hadn't ordered him to back off his plan. That was good, if maybe just a tiny bit worrisome. It couldn't possibly be a good thing for the hostage to be more in control of a situation than the guys who were supposed to rescue him.

McCormick had reached the window, and discovered that the closed shutters on the outside blocked the view much more effectively than the drapes on the inside, when he heard the door open. He turned slowly to see Tilton glide into the room, followed by his favorite muscle man. It was fascinating to him—in a rather detached sort of way—to watch the goon scan the room alertly, as if the unarmed, beaten prisoner could somehow put together some sort of assault against the prison keepers. Then, at an almost invisible movement of Tilton's hand, the guy set about moving one of the armchairs so that the two were perfectly placed for a quiet little tête-à-tête. _Wonderful. _

McCormick looked coolly across the room. "Something I can do for you, Mr. Tilton?"

"I thought it was time for a private conversation," Tilton replied, with the barest glance at his companion. Without comment—but with a menacing glare at McCormick—the other man left the room.

As Tilton moved smoothly to take one of the cushioned seats, Mark looked closely at the lines of his suit. The clothes hung well, but he was certain the .38 was safely in place in a shoulder holster. He saw the man motion to the other seat, and heard his silky voice say, "Join me."

The young man briefly contemplated resisting just on principle, but that wasn't going to get him very far. Besides, with all the aches and pains in his body, he probably wouldn't be able to stay on his feet indefinitely, anyway. Might as well sit while it wouldn't appear to be a necessity. He forced a normal gait as he crossed the room to claim the remaining chair. He sat for just a moment, observing Tilton, then said, "So what's on your mind?" He thought he managed just the right tone of conversational interest.

"Hardcastle," Tilton replied simply. "He should be receiving the photos soon."

"Then I hope I look better than I feel," McCormick replied lightly, never letting on that he would've done just about anything to keep Hardcastle from seeing him like this.

"I wouldn't count on that," Tilton told him seriously. "My associate is very fond of his work."

"So I noticed."

"Good. I'm glad you recognize his proficiencies. You should also be aware that he's waiting just outside the door. His current directive is very simple: you are not to leave this room. If you do, I'll kill him."

McCormick produced the faintest of smiles. "That's quite the incentive plan you've got there, Mr. Tilton." He paused, then added, "But I'm not looking for a repeat performance. Besides, I thought you and I were on our way to working out a deal; I'd rather take my chances with you."

Tilton returned the smile. "My associate will be saddened to hear that. I think he's hoping you'll give him another opportunity to hone his skills. He's not really all that fond of you, you know," he added, almost conspiratorially.

"And here I thought we were getting along so well," McCormick replied sardonically.

With a small chuckle, Tilton steered the conversation back on track. "Before we discuss the negotiable envelope you mentioned earlier, Mr. McCormick, I'd like to talk about Judge Hardcastle."

"Biggest donkey in the world," Mark answered. "Next topic?"

"It's not quite that simple."

The young man sighed. "Nothin's that simple with Hardcastle. What about him?"

"I am still intrigued by the nature of your relationship. What do you suppose his reaction will be to the photographs?"

McCormick studied his captor for a long moment. The complete truth was out of the question, of course, but was a lie necessary? Probably not. "I guess he'll be kinda upset."

"Because he cares about you?" Tilton clarified.

Mark pretended to consider the question carefully, then answered slowly, "Nah, not exactly. I mean, a little bit, I guess, but mostly it'll be because he wasn't able to stop you. He thinks the good guys always win."

"And does he consider you one of the good guys?"

_Careful now._ "Most of the time, I guess." McCormick paused, then asked, "But what's all this to you? I have the papers that will let _you_ win. Let's work this out, Mr. Tilton."

"And what would you get out of our deal?" Tilton asked, his tone suddenly cold.

"You mean other than the rather sizeable benefit of living through this adventure?" He saw Tilton's quick nod and continued, "Maybe a little traveling money. I'd like to set up residence somewhere out from underneath the Hardcastle thumb."

"So maybe you're really not one of the good guys," Tilton commented, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

McCormick narrowed his eyes and allowed a bitter edge to creep into his voice. "All right, let's stop all this tap dancing around, and I'll just lay it out for you. I spent two of the longest years of my life in San Quentin courtesy of Milton Hardcastle. It was an absolutely bogus rap, but he just sat there on his bench with his high and mighty attitude and sent me away. And when I got out, he was like some kind of crazy stalker: always on my ass, everywhere I went and everything I did." He forced a sneer onto his face as he picked up speed. "Then, in what has to be the worst piece of luck in the history of the world, I got busted again and landed back in his court. He had this ridiculous idea that he could rehabilitate some poor, misguided felon by taking him in and forcing him into slavery out at his estate. That's where I come in. I figured cleaning gutters and cutting grass was better than being back inside, so I signed up." McCormick shook his head slightly. "Today isn't the first time I've regretted that choice," he added intently.

"Gutters and grass, did you say, Mr. McCormick? I thought the judge recruited you to join his private vigilante committee."

McCormick shrugged. "I'm not sure that's the word I would use," he answered, knowing he couldn't really defend Hardcastle's work, but unwilling to let the label stand, "but, I do help him with his cases when he needs it, yeah; it was all part of the deal."

"And what was to be your role in _my_ case?"

With another shake of his head, McCormick allowed his honest frustration to show. "I didn't have one. Yesterday when that cop showed up at the house was the first I'd ever heard of you, and even then, Hardcastle didn't want to give up the details. He just kept being all secretive about everything. I swear, sometimes he forgets I'm the guy standing next to him when all the shooting starts, and it would be nice if I had some friggin' idea when I should duck."

Tilton offered a sympathetic smile. "He does seem to play by his own rules most of the time."

And in those few words, McCormick heard something new: an air of familiarity that he hadn't noticed before and that he didn't like one little bit. _What the hell is really going on here?_ To his captor he said, "Yeah, you know Hardcastle: 'my way or the highway'. Only in my case, the highway leads right back to Quentin, so I don't have a lot of options.

"But when I saw the way he was acting when he was talking about you, and when he was gathering up those papers of his, I suddenly thought some new options might be presenting themselves. That's why I snagged the papers, so I'd be in a better position to take advantage of whatever came along." He gestured around the room, then added ruefully, "All this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

Tilton's smile spread. "I like your attitude, Mr. McCormick."

"You'd be the only one," McCormick muttered.

"Yes, now back to Judge Hardcastle. What will he think if we should make this deal?"

_What does this guy want to hear?_ "He'll be pissed," McCormick answered quickly. Then, more quietly, he added, "And I guess he'll be surprised."

"Because he considers you one of the good guys," Tilton observed in his silky voice, and McCormick was certain there was a hint of satisfaction in the tone. "Mr. McCormick, I believe that we can do business. Would you consider fifteen thousand a fair amount of traveling money?"

"I was actually thinking twenty five," McCormick countered calmly.

Tilton smiled. "You do understand that I could kill you?"

"I do. And I assume you understand that if Hardcastle stumbles across those files after I'm dead, he'll come after you again, and you will have lost whatever leverage you may have."

Tilton inclined his head. "A fair point. We could compromise at twenty."

McCormick felt himself relax slightly. "Deal."

"Good. Now if you'll tell me where the papers are, my associate and I will retrieve them."

McCormick hesitated. "Actually, Mr. Tilton, it would be best if you let me retrieve them."

"As much as I like your style, Mr. McCormick," Tilton said with a laugh, "we need to keep this reasonable. I am not prepared to release you until I have those documents."

"No, of course not," McCormick said quickly. "I certainly didn't mean I should go alone. I just meant it would be easier if I went with you. They're in kind of an unusual place."

Tilton examined his prisoner carefully. "Maybe I should have my associate drive you," he said, his voice suddenly losing all traces of congeniality.

Mark swallowed tightly, wondering if there were warning signs for when Tilton's anger switch was gonna flip. He wanted to push buttons, but it would be nice to know where the lines were. But still, it wouldn't do to back down from such a subtle threat. "Not for nothin', Mr. Tilton," he said, maintaining his composure, "but your associates aren't exactly battin' a thousand today. They didn't manage to get your documents, they were shooting at Hardcastle against your orders, and they sure as hell got it wrong about me and the judge."

He thought quickly, then continued, "Now look, I put the papers on the beach, so what do you want me to tell you for directions? It's under the sand? Check by some rocks? Do you really trust your _associate_ to manage that by himself? Besides, it's a private beach. If you go in through Hardcastle's property—which I don't recommend—you're gonna need my help with the security. And if you do the logical thing and go up the shore, you're still gonna need someone who belongs there, and that's still me. Face it; it's better for everyone if you take me along."

Tilton sat quietly for a long moment, appearing to consider his options. Finally, he rose from his chair. "Very well," he said, as he turned for the door. "We will make arrangements to do this your way. But, Mr. McCormick…please don't forget that it is of very little consequence to me whether you live or die."

And as McCormick watched Tilton glide out of the room, he wished he could believe those final words. But, somehow, he thought that Tilton had a very definite preference concerning his fate, and he was suddenly convinced the man was hoping for a reason to kill him.

**00000**

"There," Hardcastle said, as he replaced the last shovelful of sand, "that should do it."

Harper looked at his friend doubtfully. "You sure this isn't an awful long shot?"

"Nah," the judge answered absently as he rearranged the sand to his liking, "not really. Lots of things about McCormick might be, but not this. He's runnin' some kind of play, and he needs this stuff available."

The detective continued to watch silently. The cop in him wanted to caution Hardcastle not to get his hopes up, to prepare him for the idea that this situation might not end well, especially with everything currently riding on secret messages coming from a man with a gun to his head.

But the friend in him couldn't do it. He understood how difficult this was for Hardcastle—thought, in fact, he might be one of the few people the judge would _allow_ to understand. He knew his friend was still scared, but in the hour or so since the call from McCormick, Harper had watched some of the empty horror leave the judge's eyes to be replaced with a much more typical determination. The opportunity to speak to the young man had done wonders for Hardcastle, and now the judge had dedicated himself to doing whatever McCormick needed.

Harper didn't have the heart to take that away, so he stuck to safer ground. "So how can you be sure this is the place?"

Hardcastle gestured to the rocks around him. "Because this is where- -" he broke off suddenly, caught up in a memory he wasn't sure he wanted to share. He glanced again at the large rocks on the shore—picturing the sincere face of a friend—then smiled gently as he returned his attention to Harper. "Because this is where the stones skip the best." He nodded confidently. "This is the place." He made one last swipe at the sand at his feet, then seemed satisfied. "C'mon," he said, motioning Harper to follow him back up off the beach, "we gotta find our hiding spots."

**00000**

As it turned out, finding hiding spots had proven more difficult than they had imagined, and, after twenty minutes, they'd decided there were far too many variables. Who would be coming after the papers, and when? Would they come from the estate side, or try to approach from the beach? Would there be an opportunity to take down whoever showed up, or should they just plan on following them back to Tilton, and—presumably—McCormick? And most importantly, just what the hell was McCormick planning? Hardcastle was grumbling forcefully as they made their way up the path back to the house.

"Damn fool, kid. Gives me just enough information to get started, but no idea what's actually running through that bunch of rocks he likes to call brains. Don't know what he thinks I'm supposed to do. He needs to break out that secret decoder ring of his and tell me where the hell he _is_, instead of sending me out to the beach like some kinda errand boy."

Harper chuckled as they approached the patio; it was good to see Hardcastle returning to normal. "So as a super secret agent, he's not exactly Captain Midnight. You know kids; he's probably trying for James Bond."

"James Bond?" the judge groused with a grin, "He's barely Maxwell Smart." He waved toward the outdoor chairs. "Let's wait out here for the next call. We can at least keep an eye on the beach, and we can talk. I'll go grab us something cold to drink."

"I'll walk in with you," Harper answered. "I should make another call to the station, see if there's anything new. Tilton needs to think we're still working this on the up and up."

Hardcastle nodded, and led the way inside. "I'll make some tea," he said as they entered the kitchen. He had just started filling the pitcher when the front bell rang.

Already halfway down the hall, Harper called back, "Want me to get that?" but Hardcastle suddenly pushed past him and hurried to the door.

"Milt!" Harper admonished as he rushed to reach the entryway himself. "At least let me get situated here a minute." Pulling his weapon from its holster, he positioned himself flat against the wall behind the door just before Hardcastle pulled it open.

"Yeah?" He had intended to control his bellow a bit more than that.

The unusual greeting visibly startled the young, gangly deliveryman standing on the porch. He looked uncertainly between the clipboard in his hand and the man standing in front of him. "Uh…I- I'm looking…" he glanced down again quickly, then back up. "Hardcastle? I'm looking for Milton Hardcastle."

"Well ya found him," Hardcastle growled in reply. "Whatcha got?"

"Pa- -package," the man told him, holding up a small padded envelope. "I just need you to, uh, sign for it," he continued, slipping his clipboard smoothly in front of the judge's outstretched hand. Hardcastle snatched the board, removed the attached pen, and scrawled his name quickly, then shoved it back at the younger man impatiently.

The courier gathered his clipboard and passed the envelope to Hardcastle, who grunted a quick, "Thanks," then turned and ducked back into the house.

Harper grinned slightly at the exchange, and came out from behind the door, quickly holstering the gun. He stepped out onto the porch. "Was there some kind of delivery receipt?" he asked. The kid was mumbling something about crazy rich people, so Frank traded him a couple of dollars for the paper he handed over.

The lieutenant closed and locked the front door, and entered into the den just as Hardcastle was slitting the manila envelope with the letter opener. He heard the judge mutter crossly, "Maybe this'll finally tell us what he wants," and then he watched in growing concern as the color drained from his friend's face and the judge collapsed heavily into the chair behind the desk.

"God, kid, I'm sorry."

Hearing Hardcastle's quiet groan of despair spurred Harper into action, and he moved quickly across the room. "What is it?" he asked urgently, reaching out to take the items from Hardcastle's hand. At first, he thought he might have to literally pry them from the clenched fingers, but a gently spoken command got through and Hardcastle released his grip.

Harper glanced down at the two Polaroid photographs in his hand. The first one was a wide shot showing McCormick bound tightly to a chair in an empty room of some sort. His head was slumped down, chin resting on his chest, with his eyes barely open. His face was covered in blood, but not so much blood that the newly forming bruises weren't visible. Harper was pretty sure the restraints were the only thing keeping the kid upright.

The second photo was just a close-up view; only Mark's face filled the small square. The cuts and bruises were much more palpable when magnified, and Harper would swear he could read the pain in the young man's eyes.

And in the white bar below the photo, written in perfectly formed letters, a message was printed: WE'RE NOWHERE CLOSE TO EVEN.

**00000**

Frank Harper stared impatiently at the stoic face across the table. It had taken all of the detective's control to get the other man out of the house without exploding. He had never seen Milton Hardcastle shut down so quickly and completely. When it became clear that the judge wasn't going to talk—not even to put on a show—Harper had quietly said, "You look like you could use some fresh air, Milt." And while he mostly just wanted to get Hardcastle outside so they could speak freely, the words had still been true; the judge remained almost as pale as when he'd first seen the photographs, and the lines on his face were drawn with worry.

At Harper's urging, the older man had allowed himself to be steered out of the house, and that docile acceptance was almost more troublesome than anything else that had happened today.

Then they had sat quietly at the outdoor table for many long moments while Hardcastle learned to control the subtle trembling that had started with opening the envelope. Harper tolerated the continued silence even as he himself posed the most simple and reasonable of questions. But it didn't take long for the lieutenant's fear and concern to manifest itself as anger.

"Dammit, Milt, what's going on?"

Hardcastle attempted a shrug. "The kid just looked really bad," he said dully, not meeting Harper's eyes.

"Of course he did. But I don't think that's all this is about. What was up with that note on the picture? What is going on with you and Tilton?"

"He knows I can put him away," the judge answered, shaking his head. "You're the one that said he wasn't planning on going to jail."

"Nice try," Harper answered blandly, "but you wanna give it another shot?"

A judicial eyebrow raised in a pretty good imitation of confusion. "What do you mean?"

But Harper would not be drawn into pointless conversation. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what we're up against."

"You know Tilton," Hardcastle answered non-committally.

"And I know you," Harper snapped. "And I know sometimes Mark isn't the only one around here with rocks in his head. What was with the picture? What did Tilton mean about being even? You might've been a pain in his ass before, but you didn't manage to put him behind bars, so what's he got to get even for? What is it really that has you so scared right now? What in the hell is going on?"

The judge almost managed a smile at Frank's litany of questions, but he shook his head. "Whatever he's talking about isn't important. But I'm ready for him to stop the games and just tell me what he wants me to do. I gotta get McCormick out of there."

Harper could hear the barely controlled desperation in the tone. Whatever Hardcastle wasn't saying had shaken him badly. "This isn't just about your testimony, is it?" the detective pressed, determined to avoid the brush-off. And while the judge debated on an answer, Harper remembered suddenly how strange it had seemed that McCormick had been completely unaware of the Tilton situation until yesterday, and some of the pieces clicked into place. "Tilton isn't really planning on any sort of trade, is he, Milt?"

And while Hardcastle had spent the day trying to convince himself that this nightmare was only about testimony and missing evidence, the arrival of the photograph had robbed him of that comforting delusion. Drawing in a shaky breath, he finally met the eyes of his friend, and forced himself to face the truth. "No," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, "I don't think he's gonna trade. I think he's trying to settle a score. And I think killing Mark would make us even."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

McCormick contemplated the bed as he listened to the sounds of movement from outside the locked door. One of his two captors had left in the car. _An excellent time for a jailbreak, _Mark thought, _except for the part where I fall over if I try to move too fast._ The bed was looking more and more inviting, though part of him was convinced that once he lay down on it he would never find the will power to stand up again.

He couldn't tell what time it was; no outside light penetrated the shutters on the only window. He heard the return of the car, an outer door opening, and some muffled conversation from the front of the house. A moment later he heard the door of his own room being unlocked.

He tried not to tense up. It was becoming harder to stay focused, keep the story straight, figure out what to say. _Some water would be nice._ The door opened. Tilton's goon glanced at him briefly from the doorway and then stepped back, Tilton moving past him smoothly. The goon followed along behind, went to the nightstand, and slid it over between the two armchairs. He exited without a word.

"You're not looking too well, Mr. McCormick." Tilton had a half-smile as he surveyed him. "You really ought to have taken advantage of your accommodations." He gestured toward the bed.

"I'm good here," McCormick replied laconically.

"Well, at least we must have you eat something," Tilton added, continuing his dreadful parody of the ever-thoughtful host. The goon had lumbered back into the room, looking put-upon and carrying an ancient enameled tray on which there was a plate, sandwiches and, more importantly, a water glass. He set his burden down on the nightstand and then gave his boss one quick sideward look before turning to the door. _The goon's not happy, _McCormick thought.

Tilton took his accustomed seat as his associate departed. His smile became more expansive and Mark noted his eyes were darker, and his breathing a little fast. _Well, maybe he's less crazy when he's doing drugs._ Tilton leaned forward and McCormick had to steel himself not to shy away.

"Things are moving along nicely," Tilton spoke conspiratorially. "I'm going to need you to make one last phone call." Then he sat back. "But you really must eat." Tilton picked up the glass of water and held it out.

McCormick tried not to appear too eager as he reached for it. He noticed his hand was shaking and he knew Tilton was seeing it as well. _Dammit, just drink the water. This is not a damn pissing contest._ He found himself pushing down an entirely inappropriate smile at this metaphor. He took a drink and then lifted his eyes again. He could see that Tilton had turned thoughtful.

"Something amuses you, Mr. McCormick?"

"Nothing. Everything." McCormick took another long swallow. Then he took an uncalculated risk. "I was just trying to figure out which one of you is crazier." He held his breath for a moment. This could go so badly wrong, but he felt like he had Tilton just slightly off-balance and the urge to keep pushing was overwhelming.

The silence strung out for a moment. No immediate blow to the head, that was good. He went on, "I know why _I _hate the old donkey; I did two years hard time on account of him. But you . . . street shoot-outs, all of this," he gestured to the room and himself, "you're _way_ out of my league."

"Why, Mr. McCormick," Tilton was smiling again, but this smile had the knife edge of pure evil, "I do believe that is some sort of back-handed compliment." Tilton sat back further in his chair and crossed his leg, as though he was settling in for a long visit. "Mark--may I call you Mark?"

"You can call me anything you like as long as I get my twenty thousand," McCormick replied.

Tilton sighed. "It's all about the money for you young people today, isn't it?" The remark sounded casual but there was something deeper in Tilton's dark eyes. McCormick wanted to look away but could not.

"Loyalty is nothing for you." There was an undercurrent of barely-contained anger in Tilton's voice now. The mood had changed with the sudden swiftness of a summer storm. "Someone offers you . . . _everything_, and you throw it back in their face." Tilton was still sitting back, but his face was flushed and his breathing more shallow, as though he was only just controlling the urge to strike out.

But control it he did, and Mark got the increasing impression that the remarks were not entirely directed at him. _He feels betrayed._ Well, not by Hardcastle, surely. _But I'll bet the old donkey knows who. _

Tilton had regained some of his composure. The smile was back, entirely artificial but a welcome change from what lay beneath. He reached forward and took the now-empty glass from McCormick's hand and nudged the plate closer to him on the tray.

"Eat. Then we'll make that call."

**00000**

Frank listened quietly, and with growing horror, to the tale Hardcastle told.

"And the body was never found," the judge finished, his face drawn and his voice cracking with fatigue.

"How come this isn't part of Tilton's record?" Harper finally interjected.

"He made sure the rumors got back to me, but that's what it was, all rumors. Larry was, what?—twenty-one. Guys that age up and leave home. It happens. Only this kid had come to me, trying to get out from under his father's dealings. And I told him he was doing the right thing. Patted him on the back. Told him we'd set something up with the D.A."

"Milt, he was an adult. He knew what his father was, and he knew the risk he was taking."

"Yeah, but McCormick didn't."

The two men sat for a while in silence. The judge's eyes were drawn toward the sea. Frank couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't come across as a pointless platitude. The rumors that Tilton had made sure were passed along to Hardcastle were gruesome enough to justify Milt's worst fears.

"You know," Frank began, hesitantly, "it sounds like Mark's doing his best to convince Tilton you're nothing to him."

"Won't matter," the judge said quietly, "unless I can make Tilton believe the kid means nothing to me." They watched the last bit of sun slip past the clouds and into the sea.

**00000**

"Stick to the script," Tilton advised, "nothing more, nothing less." He passed the paper over to McCormick, who looked down at it for a moment.

"What's my motivation?" Mark cocked an eyebrow up at him, then held a palm up against Tilton's sudden frown. "Seriously, do you still want me to make nice to the guy, or what?"

Tilton gritted his teeth, "Whatever it takes to get him there."

"Then don't give me this crap to read," McCormick crumpled the sheet in one hand and tossed it back at the other man. "I've been talking to Hardcase for two years; I know what to say and what not to say."

"Very well," Tilton replied, "just as long as you understand, if he doesn't show, I'll kill you." He dialed the phone and handed it over.

Mark listened. One ring, two, then a familiar voice on the other end saying a gruff, "Yeah?"

"Hi, Judge," McCormick could hear the sound of crickets in the background, night noises. _He's out by the pool._ Somehow the familiarity of the image was comforting. He spoke slowly, weighing every word. "He wants a meet. An exchange."

"Are you all right?" More gruffness, a lot of tension. _He's seen the damn photos._

"Yeah, I will be when this is over." _No permanent damage, yet._ "He wants you, alone, with the papers, on the beach at eleven tonight. I said you'd probably tell him to go pound sand." _Say no, for God's sake. _Tilton gestured for the phone. Mark said, "Wait," and then into the receiver, "Good-bye," but Tilton had his hand on the phone and had taken it away before he could hear if the judge had replied.

"Well, Judge," Tilton continued smoothly, "I hope you haven't already gifted that file to the D.A." There was a brief pause. Mark couldn't make out the words from the other end. "Good then. Eleven it is. I'll be looking forward to it." Tilton thumbed the receiver off and looked at McCormick speculatively. "Well, Mark, what do you think? Is he sincere?"

McCormick shook his head wearily. "I think you've made a big mistake. He must know by now that he doesn't have the file, unless he's just plain forgotten to look in the envelope. And, even if he did, he'd never exchange it for me. My guess is he'll have some heavy-duty police back-up waiting for you on that beach."

"Even if he knows I have a gun to your head?"

"Yeah, not much new there." McCormick said, aiming for a tone of bitter resignation. "Just means he'll have to make another trip down to Bauchet Street on Monday. Can't let the hedges get too raggedy."

"Hmm," Tilton eyed him narrowly. "I think we'll just have to take our chances."

**00000**

Hardcastle had paced out to the back edge of the yard and was staring down onto the fast-darkening beach below. Frank was a few feet behind him.

"Well?" Harper asked exasperatedly.

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder, then back at the beach. "He wants a meet, down there, eleven tonight."

"But Milt, he thinks you know you don't have the file."

"He doesn't want the damn file, Frank. The file's a McGuffin, a red herring," Hardcastle explained impatiently. "The problem is, if I'm willing to exchange myself for McCormick, then he'll know he's worth killing." Hardcastle shook his head.

"Then don't go down there, Milt, if you can't do any good by it. Let me call the Coast Guard, and get my guys in place."

"There's no way they can pull Mark out of this alive." Hardcastle shook his head. "No, I gotta go. There's still a chance. It all depends how good McCormick's little song and dance has been. If Tilton believes him, maybe that'll be enough for now. I dunno," Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead, "I wish to hell I did."

**00000**

"Time to go, Mark." It was Tilton, jostling his shoulder. He probably hadn't intended to be painful this time, but the jolt that shot through his left ribs had McCormick instantly awake, groaning. Tilton looked down at him with amused sympathy. "Sorry about that."

The goon stepped up from behind Tilton with the familiar black hood and a pair of handcuffs.

"Is this necessary?" McCormick asked carefully, though he was actually relieved to see the hood; not bothering with a blindfold might have had serious implications at this point.

"Yes," Tilton said without any apparent anger, "ours is a relationship built on necessity, not trust . . . like that between you and the judge."

McCormick turned that statement around, pondering the double meaning as he was nudged none-too-gently forward in his seat so the handcuffs could be applied. He looked up again at Tilton. The man was smiling, the dark glitter gone from his eyes. What was left was old and weary. _Maybe he hasn't believed a word I've said about Hardcastle. _And the hood was brought down over his head.

**00000**

It was a cloudy, cool night with no moon. Hardcastle studied the western horizon, listening to a distant engine, looking for what would be the nearly invisible outline of a boat operating without running lights, coming straight in. Behind him, back in the first rise of dunes near the cliffs, was Frank, with a rifle from the Hardcastle armamentarium, and strict instructions not to use it unless . . .

The judge couldn't bring himself to think about the 'unless'. How convincing had the kid been? He was pretty good, but he didn't know Tilton. _Now whose fault is that? _

And, even if McCormick had sold him the whole bill of goods, would Tilton be willing to settle for digging up the files and reveling in Hardcastle's betrayal? _Maybe, oh please, God, maybe. _Let him drop his guard for a moment, get his attention away from the kid for a few seconds. Hardcastle felt for the gun in his shoulder holster again. That would be all he'd need.

**00000**

The hood had come off as they were approaching shore. Mark wasn't sure he would have recognized the place in the dark, from this strange perspective, but Tilton apparently had done his research. The goon was steering, using the tiller of the outboard. McCormick felt the muzzle of Tilton's .38 against his right ribs as the man reached behind him and undid the cuff from one wrist.

He heard a click as Tilton refastened it to his own._ So much for escaping by diving overboard._ McCormick thought Tilton was seriously overestimating his current physical capabilities. The choppy trip in the boat had left him breathless and shivering. _Serves you right if I pass out on you when we stand up._

**00000**

He saw the outline of a small boat, dark on dark, but visible now as a moving shape against the water. The engine had been cut to idle and the boat kissed the bottom and moved sideways, rocking. There were three figures on board. One stood up and stepped out into the shallow water. He pulled the boat in and steadied it while the second man got up and gestured to the third. _They brought him._ Hardcastle let out a breath and eased away from the rock he'd been leaning on, allowing himself to be seen.

They got out of the boat, awkward as hell. Hardcastle realized, after a moment's observation, that Tilton had shackled the kid to his left wrist. Left to left, Tilton stood behind McCormick, using him as a shield, with the gun held up visible above his right shoulder. It was hard to tell what shape Mark was in, but at least he was walking.

Hardcastle kept his hands out loose at his sides, the envelope in his left; it wouldn't do to make any sudden moves in this bad light. "Tilton? You ready to deal?"

"Not tonight, Judge." Tilton leaned over to McCormick's ear and said something too low for Hardcastle to hear. The kid was pointing to the seaward side of the rock closest to the shoreline. The third man reached into the boat, took out a shovel. He walked carefully behind the other two and toward the place Mark had pointed out.

Tilton lifted his head to face him again. "What's in the envelope, Hardcastle?"

"The file," Hardcastle shouted, "What you wanted."

Tilton laughed and said something else inaudible to McCormick. The kid seemed to hesitate before replying.

"Okay," Tilton's smile was visible, even in the poor light, "you toss it down over here and step back a ways."

"What about him?" Hardcastle gestured toward McCormick with envelope.

"Judge, your associate and I have another deal worked out," Tilton was grinning broadly now, "right, Mark?" Tilton nudged him and McCormick nodded slowly. "I think he's chosen 'accessory after the fact' as his new career move."

"With the handcuffs and the gun? Come on, Tilton, you're not even trying to make him look willing."

"No, Judge." Tilton shook his head. "I'm used to betrayal. I expect it. I know I don't have this man's loyalty, only his _greed_." The grin was gone. "How much, Mark?"

There was another nudge. McCormick lifted his head. "Ah, twenty-five thousand?"

Tilton cuffed him lightly with the gun butt. "That's twenty. I'm not in a good mood, young man."

McCormick managed a shrug, "Can't blame a guy for trying." He'd caught the judge's eye and seemed to be speaking to him now.

From the rock came a grunted shout. The third man was leaning on the shovel with one hand, pulling something out of the sand. He held it up for Tilton to see.

Tilton turned back to Hardcastle. "That's your file, Judge. Your associate here stole it this morning and buried it. If I hadn't gotten him first, he would have come to me anyway."

Hardcastle grabbed at the clasp of his own envelope and yanked open the flap, scrabbling at the contents. He looked up in disgust and took a few steps toward Tilton.

"Uh-uh," Tilton gestured him to a halt, the goon coming up quickly from his left. "Stay right there, Judge. I know you'd like to have a few words with Mark, but we have other plans right now." Tilton was edging back, with McCormick still in front of him. "Just for the record, what's in your envelope, Hardcastle?"

Hardcastle looked down at it again, his voice layered with anger, "Receipts, car receipts." He narrowed his eyes at McCormick, "Why?"

McCormick dropped his eyes for a moment. Tilton gave a little yank upward on the cuffs. "Answer the man, Mark."

"Because," Mark's voice was flat and sullen. The silence stretched out. Tilton appeared to be waiting for something more.

Hardcastle felt a gnawing horror in the pit of his stomach. _Dammit, kid, you can lie better than that_. _Hell, call me an overbearing donkey; that isn't even a lie._ But the silence went on until Tilton finally jerked the kid's arm up harder and turned him toward the boat. The third man was carrying the shovel and the plastic bag, shuffling along a few steps behind.

McCormick stepped awkwardly on the turn, tangling his foot between Tilton's and starting to go down. Tilton automatically reached out with his free hand, the gun moving away from McCormick's head.

Hardcastle saw it all, and was reaching for his gun before he even spared a glance to the third man, who had dropped the shovel and was clearing his own gun from its holster. McCormick was falling sideways; the judge had a clear shot as he raised the barrel towards Tilton.

A shot rang out.

**00000**

McCormick hit the sand hard on his right side, dragging Tilton to his hands and knees beside him at arm's length. The roaring in his ears was one with the echo of a gunshot. He ignored the wave of pain from his ribs, trying to see what was happening through his tunneled down vision. He lifted his head to see past Tilton, who was already scrambling to his feet. There was a shape on the sand where the judge had been standing. The goon was moving toward it with gun drawn and pointed down.

Tilton was shouting, pulling Mark up by his wrist. There wasn't any pain anymore, just a dead, uncomprehending numbness as he kept his eyes fixed on the shape in the sand.

"Check him," Tilton screamed at the goon.

Shouts from farther up on the beach. A rifle shot. The goon clutched at his right shoulder with his left hand and stumbled back toward Tilton.

"He's dead?" Tilton screamed again as he snatched at the fallen bag.

The goon nodded, shouted something unintelligible, and staggered toward the boat. McCormick felt himself being dragged along by Tilton. Half falling in the shallow water, he was pulled up over the side and dumped in the bottom of the boat. They were pushing off and the goon, dripping blood and water, fell in beside him.

Tilton snatched at the cord and the engine caught as they slid quickly into deeper water. McCormick heard one last shot, just wild frustration now; it couldn't have had any other purpose. Frank, he supposed. Frank was all the back-up the judge had brought along.

The goon picked himself up and sat on the bench, muttering, still clutching his shoulder. Tilton let loose of the tiller for a moment and unfastened the handcuff from his wrist, not bothering to put it back on McCormick's other.

_Well, here's your opportunity._ They were far enough out. If he made it into the water, the goon would probably get off a few good shots. The guy was pissed as hell right now anyway. It would be fast and easy. He'd wash up in a couple of days. Maybe in time for a double funeral, even. And he'd never have to explain to Frank how he'd made such a total hash of this.

He was too cold to even shake now, and the only thing keeping him conscious was the twack-twack of pain in his ribs as the boat cut through the breakers. He felt a nudge from Tilton's foot. "Come on now, Mark, up you go." Tilton had him under the arm and was pulling again. "Special bonus, eh? Out from under the Hardcastle thumb for good this time, I'd say."

_I can't do this anymore._

_Yes, you can._

"Yeah," he muttered. He dragged himself to his knees and let Tilton pull him onto the seat in front of him. He'd caught a glimpse of one hot spark in the middle of the cold core of despair. He wasn't going until he could take Tilton with him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Frank Harper rushed across the beach. He knew he had hit the guy who'd done the shooting at Hardcastle, but he also knew he hadn't completely stopped him. And he sure as hell knew he hadn't stopped Tilton from getting away with McCormick still in tow. He let the useless rifle fall to the ground, and dropped down next to the still figure. "Please," he whispered frantically as he reached out to gently roll Hardcastle to his back, "don't let me lose them both."

Willing himself to professional detachment, he reached instinctively to feel for a pulse, then allowed his personal relief when he found one. "Thank God," he breathed loudly. Then he reached into his jacket for the Maglite he had pocketed before staking out the beach. He thumbed the switch and the powerful beam split the night.

Harper immediately grimaced when he saw the bloody wound on the judge's left temple. Reaching back into his pocket, he located a handkerchief, pressed it against the gash, then focused on a simple lesson learned long ago: Don't forget to check for other injuries. He ran the light slowly over Hardcastle's body, alert for more blood or any other signs of additional wounds. Finding nothing, he turned his attention back to the head wound. He didn't want to remove the pressure, but he did want to find out exactly what he was dealing with. Standing the flashlight upright into the sand so that it gave off a small umbrella of light, Harper rifled through the judge's jacket and found another handkerchief. He lifted his own away from Hardcastle's head and was concerned to see the blood still flowing freely. He dabbed gently to clear some of the blood so that he could better see the wound, then grabbed the flashlight again and looked more closely. He relaxed just a bit when he realized that the open gash was not even two inches long, and not deep enough to be described as much more than a graze. He wiped again at the flowing blood, getting the area as clean as possible, then folded the clean cloth and pressed it against Hardcastle's head.

Satisfied that immediate needs were taken care of, Harper rearranged his position in the sand, making a more comfortable seat for himself as he sat at his friend's side. He glanced at his watch to start the mental countdown. Hardcastle's injury did not seem life threatening, and he knew the judge would prefer not to have paramedics called. He was prepared to try and honor those wishes, but he would wait fifteen minutes, and no more. The detective still had some hope for McCormick's safe return, and there was no way he was gonna tell _that_ kid anything but good news about Hardcastle's health. He looked quickly at his watch again, then shook his head. Fifteen minutes was going to seem like a very long time.

**00000**

McCormick sat in grim silence in the backseat of the car. He wasn't so much focused on the steady hum of the tires rolling over pavement as he was studiously ignoring Tilton's blow-by-blow replay of the evening. The man was positively gloating, and his goon was more than happy to encourage him with well placed congratulatory remarks.

If Mark had been relieved before to have the black hood slipped over his head, he had been outright overjoyed this time. Nothing would give him away quicker than the hatred and despair he didn't know how to control. He thought it very likely that the damned handcuffs were the only thing stopping him from reaching out and murdering Tilton with his bare hands. Somewhere, on the deepest of levels, he knew that the judge wouldn't approve of that train of thought, but nothing seemed capable of moving past the single image that was burned in the forefront of his mind: the dark outline of Milton Hardcastle lying, unmoving, in the sand of Seagull Beach.

**00000**

Hardcastle awoke, feeling the pressure on his head. Or maybe it was _in_ his head, kind of hard to be sure. But he only had one thought as he struggled to sit up.

"McCormick?"

Harper lightly pressed on the judge's shoulder, keeping him flat on the ground. "Hang on, Milt," he said firmly, "don't be trying to rush things here."

Hardcastle focused his eyes on the face hovering above him. "Frank. Where's the kid?" When he saw the lieutenant shake his head sadly, he closed his eyes, bracing himself. After a moment, he looked back up at Harper. "Tell me."

The detective was matter-of-fact. "Not a lot _to_ tell, Milt. They got away. I wounded the guy who hit you, but they were too close to the shore. Tilton dragged Mark back into the boat and they shoved off outta here." He paused before adding, "I'm sorry."

The judge shook his head. "Not your fault, Frank. I shouldn't have underestimated him." He pressed his palms down onto the sand. "Help me get up."

"Milt- -"

"I said, help me," Hardcastle interrupted. "I don't intend to lounge here on the beach while that lunatic…while he has McCormick."

Harper flashed a quick grin. "If this is your idea of lounging on the beach, it's no wonder Mark never wants to let you plan the vacations."

The judge was not amused. "Harper…"

The detective knew better than to argue with that particular tone. He placed the handkerchief into the judge's hand, "This is for your head," rose to his feet, and then helped Hardcastle do the same. "Okay?" he asked, keeping his hands on the judge's shoulders to balance against the slight swaying.

Hardcastle nodded slowly as he put the cloth back up to cover his wound. "Yeah, I think so." But he didn't object to Harper's helping hand, and they stood quietly for a moment while he steadied himself.

But as he stood in the dark, it didn't take Hardcastle long to realize that his mental state was probably more unbalanced than his physical one. There was an anger burning in him deeper than he could ever remember, and his guilt was almost as overwhelming. No matter how he tried to twist it around in his brain, he came back again and again to the fact that McCormick was only in this position because of him, though the kid would undoubtedly remind him that there was nothing unusual about _that_.

But this time, McCormick wasn't ready. He thought he'd been protecting the kid, keeping him in the dark about Tilton. He could see now how wrong that idea had been. If he had been more honest, at least Mark would've been just a little bit prepared when this disaster struck. Instead, the young man was operating in the dark. No matter what information Frank had given him the night before, it wasn't enough. The kid was working blind, with no idea of how really crazy Tilton could be underneath his oh-so-charming exterior. McCormick could be running his mouth like always, never knowing how many different ways Tilton knew how to hurt someone…

"Milt? Milt!"

Harper's voice seemed a long ways away, and Hardcastle could feel the hands tightening on his shoulders, as if he needed help to stay standing.

"Milt," Harper was still talking, "can you hear me?" The way Hardcastle had lurched suddenly, and the way the little bit of color in his face had drained away—a terrible sight here in the darkness—had worried the detective. But now, staring into the blank eyes and hearing the low moan that escaped his friend's lips was chilling. He spoke more urgently. "Can you hear me?" he repeated.

"Of course I can hear you," Hardcastle finally snapped. At least, the judge had intended to snap. The words were really more of a mumble than anything else, almost unintelligible, but Harper was relieved.

"Okay." The detective glanced around quickly. "How about if you sit down for a bit? I'll go call the paramedics." Harper tried to steer the older man back toward the rocks—at least he could lean against them—but Hardcastle wasn't budging. Amazing how someone so seemingly on the verge of collapse could be so stubbornly planted in place.

"No paramedics," Hardcastle was saying, "no time. Have to find the kid."

Harper sighed silently. "We'll find him, Milt, but you gotta take care of yourself, too."

"No paramedics," the judge repeated, his voice gaining strength. "Just help me back up to the house. Look," he pulled the cloth away from his head, "it's not even bleeding any more." But he managed a small grin as he felt the blood begin to trickle down the side of his face. Putting the cloth back in place, he amended, "Well, it's not bleeding much. I'll bandage it up and we'll be good to go."

Harper found it within himself to return the grin. "Mark's right," he answered, "you _are_ a donkey." But he repositioned himself to Hardcastle's side, made sure he had a good grip on his friend, then began the tedious process of moving up the path toward the house.

**00000**

He felt himself begin to fall, and realized that he had fallen asleep against the now opening car door. The sudden movement was startling, painful, and—bound as he was—unstoppable. Then McCormick felt hands grab his shoulders to steady him again, and heard Tilton's voice say, "I've got you, Mark," in an almost comforting tone. It made his skin crawl, and he hoped the cool temperature and his still damp clothes would be blamed for the small shiver that ran over him.

"Thanks." He forced out the single word as he let himself be helped out of the car, then was steered along in the proper direction. The air was cold and clear, and the night surprisingly quiet, so he assumed they were back at the house where they had started. "You could've dropped me off anywhere in town," McCormick commented flatly as he was led through whatever outer rooms the house possessed. Then he heard a door close and felt the guiding hand release him, and knew he was back in the small, drab room. He fought down another shiver as he felt the hands again, this time releasing him from his shackles. He knew the hood would be coming off next, and he steeled himself. _Get a grip, McCormick._ It wasn't time yet. He winced in the sudden light, but that wasn't enough to block Tilton's grin.

"Of course you have to be our guest tonight, Mark," Tilton said amiably. "We haven't completed the financial end of our agreement and the banks are closed."

"I woulda trusted you with a check," McCormick responded, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. He tried not to think about the idea that the banks would still be closed tomorrow.

Tilton chuckled briefly. "Yes, I bet you- -" He broke off and examined his prisoner more closely. McCormick hadn't moved, not even to shake the circulation back into his hands after removing the cuffs. And his face, even with all its scrapes and bruises, was a frozen mask. "McCormick?" When the young man didn't answer, Tilton grabbed his arm and turned him roughly to put them directly face to face. "McCormick?" he asked again, anger creeping into his tone.

Mark shook his head, but after only a few seconds he could feel fingers digging into his arm, pressing deep into his muscle. He forced himself not to pull away. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that," he finally said through gritted teeth.

Tilton jerked his hand away like it was on fire, and stared. "He matters to you," he said slowly. And mingled with the anger and the surprise, Mark was certain he heard just a bit of envy.

McCormick stepped backward, putting space between them. "You know what matters to me?" he demanded, channeling his very real anger. "Staying out of prison. A relationship of necessity, that's what you said. But what happened to _my_ necessities? It might not have occurred to you, but as the only resident ex-con at Gull's Way, a lot of suspicion points my way for a lot of things. Bad enough you're shouting up and down the shoreline about me being an accessory, but when you leave the man laying dead in the sand, who do you think they're going to come looking for?" He glared across the small distance. "Hardcastle was not the only person on that beach! I'm going to spend the rest of my life on the run because your hired hand doesn't have sense enough not to go killin' a judge."

"Things did happen a bit unexpectedly," Tilton admitted.

"Yeah, well, I thought you were supposed to be in control, Tilton." McCormick didn't even have time to register Tilton moving quickly to close the small distance between them, so the sudden backhand across his cheek caught him off guard. He raised his fist instinctively in defense, but Tilton intercepted it effortlessly, and Mark suddenly found himself spun around, arm twisted behind him, with a gun resting against his head. He forced himself not to force Tilton's hand. _It's still not time._

"I think I preferred _Mr_. Tilton," the older man snarled, "and I hope we can agree that I _am_ in control."

McCormick swallowed hard and nodded. There was a deeper anger in the silky voice now, and it gave Tilton a whole new level of creepiness. He willed his own tone to neutrality. "Sorry, Mr. Tilton." He felt his arm twist further up his back one last time—for good measure, he supposed—then he was stumbling forward as Tilton shoved him away. By the time he turned back to face his captor, Mark was watching the man smooth his jacket back over the newly re-holstered .38.

The two men stood silently for several seconds, observing each other. McCormick finally ventured a simple query. "Now what?"

Tilton hesitated another moment, watching his captive closely, then a small smile returned to his face. "Now I believe we should get some rest. It's late in a long day, and it looks like you are very close to collapse. You will find dry clothes in the closet, and then you should sleep. We will deal with tomorrow tomorrow."

Again the tone had that strange air of comfort that McCormick found so disturbing. He watched Tilton glide himself out of the room, and McCormick wished briefly he had the energy to make the man regret the confidence with which he turned his back on his prisoner.

Mark heard the lock click into place on the closed door, and he shook his head slowly. _Collapse,_ he thought bitterly. _The man doesn't know how right he is._ He wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever, to pull inward on himself and never face the world again. And he wanted to scream, to cry out in anger and frustration and despair. Hardcastle was dead, and he needed desperately to grieve, but he was not afforded that luxury. He thought it was possible, if unlikely, that there was some kind of surveillance equipment in place in the room. And whether there was or wasn't, there was no way to know when Tilton or his muscleman might walk back into the room, and he certainly couldn't afford to be caught in the middle of the kind of break-down he could feel burning beneath his barely controlled surface.

After a moment's thought, he decided that his own clothes were practically dry and he didn't really have any interest in letting Tilton be the obliging host, so he ignored the closet and crossed the small room to lower himself slowly onto the bed. A million thoughts ran though his head, frenzied and chaotic. _What did Tilton really mean to happen out on that beach? Why does he hate the judge so much? What did I do wrong?_ _What does he want with me now? How did this get so screwed up? What really happened with Hardcastle and Tilton? What am I supposed to do without him?_

Thoughts racing, he lay his arm across his eyes to block the harsh overhead light. A bedside lamp would've been preferable, though, of course, a lamp might be used as a weapon of some sort. But there was no way he was going to lie here in the _dark_ with his tortured and murderous thoughts. But even the unyielding brightness was not enough to protect him from the one thought that could drown out all others: _It's my fault Hardcastle is dead._

**00000**

Harper glanced up from the stack of papers in front of him. "I wish you'd lie down for just a while," he said to Hardcastle. He fully realized that that was at least the tenth time he'd made a similar comment in the last two hours, but he still had the unreasonable idea it might eventually work. Not this time, though.

Hardcastle didn't even bother to look up when he shook his head. "I'll rest when we find McCormick," he said firmly, though the exhaustion was apparent behind the words. He turned his attention to the next sheet of paper in his own stack, then made a notation on the legal pad next to him.

"Just how many people did it take to _not_ convict this guy?" he muttered crossly.

Across the gatehouse dining table, Harper chuckled. "Can't say the LAPD isn't committed," he answered lightly as he turned his attention back to the pages.

The rather long trek from the beach had given the men time to come up with a couple of ideas. The first—though Hardcastle had objected strongly—was that the gatehouse would be the safest place for them to set up their new command post. Harper had believed that there might be some advantage to be gained from allowing Tilton to keep believing that Hardcastle was dead, so the jurist had been banned from the main house. The judge hadn't wanted to hide, and he hated the idea that McCormick wouldn't know the truth, but he finally took some comfort from the idea that maybe his "death" would remove Tilton's motivation for hurting the kid.

The second idea was centered on figuring out who Tilton had working the inside of his case, thinking they might work backward from there to find Tilton and McCormick. Both men detested the idea of a dirty cop, but they could both be practical, and they understood how the situation might work. They agreed that there was a certain logic in bribing someone you already knew, as opposed to approaching a complete stranger, and they had decided to review Tilton's case history carefully, hoping to identify any potential security risks.

And so, armed with at least the start of a plan, Harper had deposited Hardcastle carefully in the gatehouse and headed to the main house in search of supplies. He had returned a quarter hour later with a first aid kit, Tilton's file, and a bottle of aspirin. Hardcastle had been dozing on the sofa, and the detective debated simply letting the man sleep, but he had really wanted to get that head cleaned up and bandaged. Now, more than two hours after he had decided to awaken the other man, he sat looking at Hardcastle—bandaged, medicated, and determined.

There had been more than a few times in their long association when Harper had been grateful not to be the person on the wrong side of Milton Hardcastle, but he decided he'd never felt that as strongly as he did right now. As he silently took in the grim line of Hardcastle's mouth, the smoldering anger in the pale blue eyes, and the stubborn set of his jaw, Harper became aware of one thing: taking Mark McCormick had been Samuel Tilton's final mistake.

**00000**

McCormick bolted up in the bed as he heard his name called out boisterously and the bedroom door slam shut. "Hardcase?"

"Sorry," Tilton said with a small grin, "not this time. Did I wake you?"

Reality came back to him, and McCormick swung his legs over the side of the bed and sized up his captor quickly. _Hasn't this guy ever heard of 'Just say no'? _"Nah," he said automatically, "no problem." _It's my first day without him. _He pushed the thought away.

Tilton crossed the room to his favorite chair, and leaned casually on its back. "Got the judge on your mind, huh?" he asked knowingly.

"Habit," McCormick answered with a shrug, unsure why he was continuing with the charade. Leaving this house alive had stopped being a priority the minute that shot rang out on the beach, and yet… "I suppose I'll have a chance to learn new habits now," he continued.

"Indeed you will," Tilton agreed magnanimously. He indicated the vacant chair. "I thought we might share more conversation."

Breathing deeply, McCormick pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room to join Tilton. _One step at a time, McCormick._ He took his seat, and watched as Tilton folded himself into his own chair. Then he sat silently, waiting for Tilton to make the first move. He didn't particularly have anything to say, and who knew what a drugged up, crazy killer wanted to hear, anyway? Better to let the lunatic go first.

Tilton looked at his prisoner closely. "You look a little better," he observed. "Maybe I should've let you sleep longer."

McCormick shrugged again. "I was just a little bit…surprised earlier, I guess. I wasn't trying to be difficult. I'm fine."

"So you begin to see the advantages of recent events?"

"Advantages?" The word ripped through McCormick's heart. What good could possibly come of 'recent events'? _Just say yes,_ his mind instructed. "I suppose." _That's the best I can do. _

"At the very least," Tilton went on, "your days of being the judicial handyman have come to an end."

"True enough." The ex-con was certain that not even Tilton's drug of choice would prevent him from recognizing the hesitation in these answers, but he couldn't seem to find any way to even pretend to be glad that Hardcastle was dead. _Get a grip,_ he thought bitterly. Sometime during the night those words had become something of a mantra, and he clung to them now. He tried to focus his thoughts. "What's the plan now, Mr. Tilton?"

"Ah, you are eager to move forward."

"No offense, Mr. Tilton, but I'm eager not to be a prisoner anymore. I've spent almost the last five years of my life locked up in one way or another. I'm ready for a change." _That's a little better._

"I appreciate the sentiment," Tilton answered smoothly. "But I'm afraid that will have to wait another couple of days."

"What? I kept my end of the bargain, Mr. Tilton. And now that- - -" he faltered, then continued, "now that Hardcastle's dead, it's all over. I can't do any more for you." McCormick figured that might be a dangerous argument to make, but he was beyond caring.

Tilton didn't move to the obvious threat, but offered a simple explanation. "I agree there is little else you can do _for_ me, Mark, but there is still much you could do _to_ me. You will need to be my guest until my trial is officially over. Really, though, with no evidence and no Hardcastle, I would expect the case to be dismissed fairly quickly."

"What about that other guy? The investigator?"

"Riley?" Tilton did not appear concerned. "He is only one man, one witness. It won't be enough. Your friend, the judge, was the key. No, I don't foresee any problems. You should be free by Monday night."

McCormick nodded slowly. The nonchalant way Tilton was still chalking up the benefits of Hardcastle's death—and expecting him to do the same—was wearing on his last nerve already. _How long can I take this?_ He needed a break before he could face any further 'conversation'.

"Um, Mr. Tilton," he began slowly, "not to be indelicate, but you know there's no bathroom in here, and- - "

"Oh, of course," Tilton answered immediately, rising quickly to his feet. "I should have thought of that myself." He moved across the room, opened the door, and motioned his goon inside.

_Still right outside the door_, McCormick thought.

"Please allow Mr. McCormick to use the facilities," Tilton instructed.

Mark rose from his seat and turned to see the guy pulling the handcuffs from his pocket. He rolled his eyes, but didn't object as he silently held his hands out in front of him, allowing the goon to secure the bracelets. Then he let the man steer him down the plain hallway to the bathroom two doors down. He was shoved inside and the door pulled closed loudly, but the muscle-bound guard never said a word. _Guess he's not in a very good mood. Shoulder probably hurts like hell. Good._

McCormick stood silently in the small room for a moment, staring numbly into the mirror. He wouldn't have thought he could possibly look as bad as he felt, but he would've been wrong about that. _Still think you're in control, kiddo?_ He heard Hardcastle's voice in his head and closed his eyes briefly. He could only imagine the judge's reaction at seeing him like this, and he sent up a silent prayer of apology for his arrogance.

His mantra began running through his head again, but it was gradually edged out by the idea that there might actually be an end in sight. He didn't believe for a minute that Tilton truly intended to release him, so the man must just want to screw with him for the next couple of days. But that was okay. Two could play at that game, even if one of them did have to keep reminding himself to _get a grip_. Tilton probably had some grand finale in mind; that's always the way it was with the crazy ones. So that just left them needing to get through the next day and a half. _Fine._

McCormick leaned closer to the mirror, judging his expressions, and wondering when Tilton might realize that he'd picked the day of his own death. "Monday," he whispered to the empty room, and knew that he'd found another mantra.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Frank gradually became aware that his eyes had been staring, unseeing, at the same paragraph for more than a few seconds. _Microsleep_. He sat up straight, rubbed his face with his hands, and glanced up and to his left. There was daylight coming in the second floor window of the gatehouse. He checked his watch, _6:45 a.m._ They had, the both of them, been up for twenty-four hours straight, and Milt, just to make things more interesting, had taken a graze wound to the head.

He looked at the man sitting across the table from him. The judge was no longer studying the page in front of him. His eyes were fixed on a point on the opposite wall. For a horrible second, Frank thought he was out of it completely, some sort of seizure, some late effect of the head wound. He almost reached out to shake the man, to see if he could respond.

Then he looked over his shoulder, following Hardcastle's gaze. It was not, as he'd first thought, undirected. No, he was staring at a framed photograph that hung on the wall next to the door--Mark in his racing gear. Milt wasn't out of it, he was intensely _focused_.

Frank cleared his throat. Milt broke away and looked at him. "You know," Frank began, "Mark's plan _did_ work. Tilton really thinks he's turned on you." There, he'd offered it, for whatever consolation it was worth.

Hardcastle grunted his response. Then he added, with gruff affection, "Yeah, the kid practically has a patent on B.S." His eyes were drifting back to that picture, when he suddenly blinked twice and darted a look back at Frank. "You know, there's something that was bothering me, early on, something I kinda lost track of."

_Yeah, you've been a little distracted, _Frank thought. "What's that?" he asked.

Milt looked down at the papers in front of them, at the scribbled list of names, all people involved in Tilton's case. "I think maybe we're going at this all wrong. Tilton has always been a big operator, 'make no small plans' kinda guy. You know he offered _me_ a bribe once."

Frank's eyebrows went up.

"Yeah, way back before all the rest of," he waved his hand over the pile of papers, "_this_. Oh, he was pretty crafty about it, nothing I could prove if it came to that. But I let him know that if I could've, I would've nailed him on it. I think that's how this whole thing between him and me started." The judge frowned, as though it was a puzzle, as though if he could just get _all_ the pieces to fit, everything would come out all right in the end. "Anyway, Tilton wasn't a guy who _ever_ underestimated himself."

"So, what does all that mean?"

"I think the guy he's got on the inside is pretty damn close to the center. It's not going to be one of these." Hardcastle ran his finger down the list he'd made. "These are bit players."

Now Frank was frowning. "The D.A.?"

"Thompson? Nah, as much as I can't stand the guy, I don't think he's dirty. Shifty as hell, but not dirty." Hardcastle shook his head once. "Besides, he wasn't around for the last one. He was down in Sacramento working with the Governor's special task force on, God, what the hell was it?" Milt put his hand to his head. "Frank, I think maybe I'm not hitting on all cylinders here."

"Milt, you're doing at least as well as I am," Frank reassured him. "But I think you'd do a lot better if you'd take a nap. Just an hour."

"No . . . no, what I was trying to tell you. What was bothering me, though I hadn't really given it a lot of thought, was _Riley_."

"The D.A.'s _investigator_?"

"Yeah, he's been in on it from the get go. He saw all the evidence, knew what we had and what we were going to throw at Tilton, hell, he even knew where it was all being kept. And now, with him and me the two witnesses on this case, Tilton calls down the thunder on Mark, and leaves Riley standing there on the steps looking like nobody important."

"Doug Riley is an old pro."

"How much they paying investigators in the D.A.'s office these days, Frank?"

Frank trusted Hardcastle's instincts almost more than he trusted his own, but accusing a D.A.'s investigator on the basis of little more than _proximity_, well . . . of course he sure as hell _did_ have the opportunity, a guy like Riley could come and go as he pleased in the file room. And, as for method, ditto.

With regards to motive, Frank had seen the big round numbers floating around in the Tilton file; the man had been worth multi-millions, and probably still had a substantial haul tucked away even now, and Riley was a middle-level civil servant, closing in on mandatory retirement and a state pension.

Frank had run this chain of reasoning in the time it had taken him to open his mouth in protest—and no protest was forthcoming. "Damn," he said, "_Riley?_" He reached for the phone.

Hardcastle's hand came down on his before he could pick up the receiver. "Wait a sec."

"Lemme at least put a tail on him, Milt. He may be our only lead."

"Frank, do you have _anybody_ you can trust, who Riley doesn't know on sight? Spook him now and he goes to ground. I think maybe I've got a better idea."

Hardcastle reached for the phone himself and started to dial.

Frank had listened to Milt's early-morning rousting of Riley. They'd talked like old friends, at least from the judge's end of the wire. It would've taken years of experience, to have caught the nuances in Hardcastle's voice. On the surface it had been routine inquiries. How was Riley holding up? Any new angles on the investigation? Then came the tease and the hook.

A damn shame about the file, yes, very hard to prosecute without it. Back to square one except . . . except there was maybe _another_ case against Tilton that the D.A. might be interested in. No, didn't want to discuss it prematurely, something from way-back but, hell, the statute of limitations never runs out on murder, does it?

It seemed like the conversation came to a close very quickly after that. Riley was excusing himself efficiently. But that all fit together with the judge's theory.

The phone was hung up now, and Milt was sitting in front of it with his elbow propped on his knee and his forehead buried in his hand. "Oh, God, Frank, if I'm right, about sixty seconds from now, Tilton's gonna know I'm still alive."

Frank frowned, "Is that what we want?"

Hardcastle picked up the phone again, apparently on impulse, and dialed a second time. "Busy signal." His eyes came up and met Harper's.

**00000**

Mark did what they expected him to do in the bathroom and, finishing that, took a few moments to investigate his surroundings. He opened the medicine cabinet slowly, hoping there'd be no tell-tale squeak.

Empty. Not so much as a bottle of aspirin. Then he saw one abandoned object--a hairpin lying on a hairpin-shaped rust stain trying hard to become one with the metal shelving. He pried it loose, considered it for a moment, then slipped it into his sock. He closed the cabinet with infinite care, easing it onto its latch.

He heard the phone ringing somewhere off in the house. He froze where he stood, listening hard, but could hear no voices. Still, it was information of a sort. There was someone else out there who knew about this place.

There was only one other thing of interest in the small room. High on the wall, above the ancient, footed bathtub, was a small window. Not large enough to be an avenue of escape but, _a_ _window._ He stepped into the tub carefully. With the extra six inches of height, he could see over the sill. The glass was dirty, but the blurred image was of mountainous terrain, and the direction of the sun indicated he was looking south. _San Fernando, the Santa Monicas, Malibu_. He put his head down on the back of his hand, which rested on the sill. _This is not a good thing to think about right now._ He considered himself fortunate that at that moment the goon began pounding on the door.

The door swung open. Mark had only managed to get one foot out of the tub. He completed the second step with the goon's hand on his collar, dragging him out. "Hey, wait a sec--"

But it was Tilton's voice that brought things under control. "Now, Mark," he began quietly, "let's not be uncooperative." And though the words hadn't been directed at him, the goon eased his grip and allowed McCormick to get his balance. "That's better now, isn't it?" There was that silky sharp edge again. Even the goon seemed . . ._subdued_

"Did you enjoy the view?"

"Windows need cleaning," Mark muttered.

Tilton smiled. "Good to see you have your _spirit_ back. I was getting worried. At any rate, I have a little project for you. Something I'm sure you'll be good at."

McCormick thought anything would be better than _the talks._ He shrugged and held up his hands to show the cuffs.

A quick nod from Tilton and they were off. _So much for the hairpin_.

"What kind of 'project'?" he inquired cautiously.

Tilton's smile grew a little broader. "Yard work," he pointed toward the back door.

**00000**

"Now what?" Frank asked quietly. "Maybe he was just trying to reach the D.A., to give him an update."

"Maybe," Hardcastle replied doubtfully. "But if I'm guessing right, Tilton is going to come charging back at me. God, that man cannot stand to lose face. And if that happens, we'll know who the leak is."

**00000**

"A shovel?" McCormick looked doubtfully at what he was being handed. Tilton had already taken a seat under a tree some distance away. There was something horribly incongruous about that man in a lawn chair. He was back in the expensive overcoat, with a pair of leather gloves. The goon was now Mark's immediate supervisor, and Tilton had apparently handed over the specs to him.

"Just dig," he grunted.

McCormick let out a sigh. His ribs still hurt like hell and the goon was still holding a gun. A shovel probably wouldn't turn the balance of power in his favor. He began to dig, slowly and methodically, under the goon's direction, until the general outline began to take on all-too-familiar dimensions.

_This is some sort of test_. He dug the grave with even less than his usual enthusiasm for manual labor.

**00000**

"So we might as well go back up to the house," Frank finally said, after they'd sat there in silence for a minute or two. "And if we're back to waiting for a phone call, you should lie down for a little while."

Frank watched the judge get up from the chair and steady himself for a moment, like an older man would. He quashed the urge to reach out and offer a hand. Milt wouldn't appreciate that right now. Instead, he gathered up the papers, studiously ignoring the slowness in Hardcastle's movements.

He saw him stop by the door, just a moment's hesitation, one last glance at the photograph. _He's not going to be able to hold it together much longer, going on like this._Frank wondered if there would be a point where he might have to go back on his word.

**00000**

There was an indolent quality to grave digging, McCormick concluded by about the four-hundredth shovelful. After all, no one ever was in a rush for a grave. The goon, at least, seemed to be getting some quiet enjoyment out of the situation. As for himself, he was remembering a previous experience, out in the desert almost two years before.

That time he'd thrown the shovel back in their faces with some sort of crazy refusal. _That_ time the judge had come riding up in the nick of time with the whole damn cavalry. He smiled to himself, and noticed that the goon seemed a little twitchier for a moment or two.

"Hey, _Mister_ Tilton," McCormick shouted from where he stood, a good three feet down. "You think maybe I'm done here yet?" This pissed his guard off no end. He was clenching and unclenching the gun in his right hand. McCormick leaned the shovel up against the side of the hole and boosted himself up with both hands to sit on the side opposite the goon, still smiling.

Tilton had strolled over and was standing a short ways off, on the guard's side of the hole. He gave a nod of approval. "You do good work."

"Lots of practice," McCormick said. The smiling was getting easier. The whole idea of taking Tilton down had been, _let's face it_, _ambitious_. This would be a hell'uv'a lot easier. The judge would not be riding up to the rescue. _Nope, you'll go find him this time._

Tilton was smiling right back at him, as though they were sharing some private joke, as he unholstered the .38. He brought the gun to bear but, in the moment Mark had to consider it, his aim seemed off.

The concussion of the shot echoed against the mountain and sent a hundred birds to flight on unheard wings. _I'm still alive_, McCormick thought, and his smile slipped as he watched the goon topple forward into the grave.

Tilton reholstered his weapon, stepped forward, and scuffed a small amount of dirt into the hole. "He _lied_ to me." He looked down with disapproval. "You'd better fill it in."

**00000**

Frank fetched coffee, while the judge listened to the answering machine, mostly a series of increasingly irate messages from Thompson the D.A., asking where the hell he was and when the hell was he going to return the calls.

The den had a dampening effect. Frank's only comment on the tape was an eyebrow raised in inquiry, something along the line of, _Do you really think he's planning on going through with the trial tomorrow morning? _

Hardcastle swiped his nose once and shrugged. No telling what Thompson was thinking at this point. He'd originally planned the prosecution without the benefit of Hardcastle's files. But he desperately wanted the man himself. The judge picked up his cup of coffee and strolled out into the hallway and back toward the patio, Frank at his heels.

Out there, the unspoken conversation picked up where it had left off.

"Dunno," Frank said. "Sounds to me like we're on for Monday."

"It'll have to be," Milt replied, "even if it's just a motion to delay. The question is, will Tilton show?"

"My God, Milt, you think he would?" Frank looked astonished at the idea, "He came to your home and took a shot at you."

"Yeah, but he may still think he's killed me. And even if he finds out I'm alive, he's always got McCormick for leverage."

"Assuming he still thinks that means something to you," Frank said.

"You _are_ tired, Frank. I drew on Tilton, down on the beach. I gave up the whole game, right there. He _knows _what that kid means to me." Hardcastle rubbed his forehead, wincing when he got too close to the bandage. "Anyway, if he doesn't show, his bond's revoked and the warrant goes out about ten minutes after that. _And_ he'd like nothing better than to end it for once and for all tomorrow, with me on the stand stammering and saying 'Sorry, I don't remember all that much'. Seeing that'd be worth a big risk to him.

"The only question is," Hardcastle added flatly, "will it improve Mark's chances if Tilton doesn't leave that courthouse alive tomorrow?"

**00000**

It ought to have been easier. _That's the guy who killed Hardcastle._ He dropped the first shovelful in down by the legs. Nothing. No response. _He's dead, for God's sake; just get this done._

Tilton had moved back a couple of paces. He was holding the .38 casually, but hadn't put it away. McCormick kept his eyes on what he was doing, and the only sound was the scrape of the shovel and the dirt falling.

Tilton cleared his throat, as if it might be impolite to interrupt a man at work. "Mark?" he began almost hesitantly, and McCormick spared him a glance out of the corner of his eye. "How did you know I wasn't going to shoot you?"

"I didn't," Mark answered bluntly. There. It was hard to know what effect that would have, but he was so sick and tired of these games that it really didn't matter to him any more.

The dirt now covered the goon's legs and torso. The man had sprawled face down, thank God, with his head turned away. His gun must've fallen underneath him. Another shovelful dropped onto the back of his shoulders, the dirt skittering down in rivulets alongside the head. McCormick watched, mesmerized.

"You'd better hurry up with that," Tilton said, coolly. Mark jerked up, aware that he'd been caught out. "We have things to do." Tilton looked down impatiently at his watch. "I'll leave you to it. I have some phone calls to make."

He strode off toward the house without so much as a look back. McCormick watched him go in mute surprise. His mind clicked back on. _New game, new rules._ Okay, he was out in the middle of nowhere, burying a man he hoped was dead, for a man who was . . . _unhinged_, and who was now just leaving him to it.

_Fine_, _what next?_ If he walked away, where would he go? He was miles from nowhere, with no good cover within a hundred yards of the house. Start digging in the half-filled grave for the gun? He was fairly certain that, despite his nonchalance, Tilton would be watching from inside the house. He tossed another shovelful of dirt in, becoming increasingly certain, with each passing moment, that Tilton had no intention of letting him out of this alive.

_I know where the bodies are buried._

**00000**

Frank kept his voice calm. Shouting wasn't going to help, "Milt, you spent thirty years on the bench, and how many before that as a cop? All of that enforcing the law. You'd throw all that away for a moment of . . . revenge?" he asked in disbelief.

"No," Hardcastle shook his head, "not revenge. Flagrant necessity. Anyway, Frank," he rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking like a man who was trying to gather his thoughts, "I'm an _ex_-judge, and an _ex_-cop. I gave nearly everything I ever had to that; I don't have a lot left that's important to me" There was a pause; he was running out of words. "And I'm not giving up one damn thing more."

Frank watched him carefully. _Everyone has a breaking point._ And yet he somehow believed that his friend was still just this side of okay.

**00000**

McCormick threw the last few shovels' worth onto the mound. He couldn't bring himself to tamp it down. It looked like a grave. He straightened up, back aching, and wiped his hands on his pants. Now that he was no longer exerting himself, the chill mountain air made the sweat dry on his skin. He shivered.

It occurred to him that he didn't even know the man's name. _Goon, the goon's name. He shot the judge. _

He planted the shovel deep into the loose dirt and turned his back on the whole thing. Then he walked up to the house slowly; there wasn't really anywhere else to go. As he'd expected, Tilton was standing in the kitchen, near enough to the window to survey the entire yard. The gun was back in its holster. He was smiling broadly when McCormick entered the room.

"Very good, Mark," he nodded. "I can see the judge put some _effort_ into you." Then he made a face of mild disapproval. "But you really _are_ a mess. Between the blood and the dirt, I don't think that shirt can be salvaged. I _told_ you there were some clothes in the closet. Now get in there and find something." He made a little shooing gesture with his hand. "And get yourself cleaned up a bit."

McCormick kept the shudder of disgust under control until he had turned the corner into the familiar room. _New game, new rules. Rule #1: He's gonna talk to you like that right up until the moment when he shoots you in the back of the head._

He took a deep breath and opened the closet door. There were only a few things hanging there. He pulled a denim shirt off a hanger and looked at it for a moment—a couple sizes too big. _Goon-sized_.

He crossed the hall to the bathroom, took his own shirt off and dropped it on the floor. He inspected the bruises over the left side of his ribs, then slipped the denim shirt on without many qualms, rolling up the sleeves, and tucking it loosely into his pants to take up some of the excess.

He washed his hands methodically, trying to get the dirt out from under his nails. He supposed he ought to leave some of it there; that was the sort of thing forensic pathologists doted on, but he was tired of being cooperative.

**00000**

And then the phone rang.

The telephone conversation had been terse from the judge's end and the phone on the patio had no speaker. Frank pushed his impatience down and watched Hardcastle's face, trying to find some meaning in that and the 'yeses' and 'nos' he was responding with.

The judge's final request, "I want to talk to McCormick," received a brief answer. Frank could hear the loud click from the other end, even from where he stood.

"Dammit." Hardcastle put his own receiver back in the cradle. He looked up at Frank, "A gas station, Canoga Park." He grabbed a notepad and pencil off the table and was jotting quickly. "He wants me to be by the phone there in forty minutes."

"Alone?" Frank asked.

"Of course."

"We'll have to take two cars, then. Can you drive?"

Milt blinked once, as if he didn't understand the question, "Sure, why the hell not?"

Frank merely sighed.

**00000**

Mark emerged from the bathroom warily. Tilton was not in sight but he heard his voice from the kitchen. For a flash he thought Tilton might have degenerated to the point of talking to himself but, no, this had the staccato pacing of a telephone conversation. By the time McCormick was close enough to overhear, Tilton was closing with a curt, "I don't think that's possible right now. Please follow my instructions precisely."

Then he was hanging up and turning toward the younger man, gun in his other hand. "Yes, much better, much more presentable. Well, we must be off now." He pointed to the handcuffs lying on the table. "You'll have to put them on yourself. You can manage that?"

"Behind?" Mark asked wearily. Tilton nodded and made a little 'hurry-up' gesture with the gun. Mark complied

Tilton pushed him against the wall just outside the master bedroom. "Please be so kind as to wait right here, Mark. Don't move. I'll be just a moment. It's personal." And then he ducked into the bedroom.

_There's something more personal than kidnapping, extortion, and murder?_ But whatever it was, McCormick decided he didn't want to know. He didn't move.

Just a few seconds later, Tilton emerged from the room and directed him through the house and out onto the front steps.

"Now we have a decision to make. It's either the trunk," Tilton smiled, "or you can ride in the front seat, like a civilized person."

"Do I get a vote?"

"Actions speak louder than words, as they say." Tilton's voice had slid into something vaguely like a parent lecturing a child. "Now I think you've demonstrated some promise this morning, some ability to handle _responsibility._ I just want you to know, _if _you do anything _untoward_ while you are riding in the car, I will consider our contract null and void, and I will shoot you."

"At least I won't have to dig the damn grave," McCormick muttered, almost before he had thought the words. The cuff came swift and hard and almost felled him.

He staggered, trying to clear the ringing in his ear and hearing Tilton's harsh voice even through it, ". . . and you will _not_ use that tone with me again."

**00000**

Frank had campaigned hard for some undercover back-up. The judge had argued, with damnable rationality, that there was no way to get someone into place that fast, especially not knowing the layout in advance. It would have to be him and Frank, and he wished to hell that Frank would please be a little _circumspect_.

So Frank was nearly a half-block away, watching his friend stalk the phone in front of the Go-Rite gas station. He'd had to restrain the judge from showing up earlier than the appointed time. Surely if the little demonstration on the beach hadn't been enough, Milt's willingness to stand out on the curb in broad daylight, letting Tilton have another shot at him, would cinch matters for sure.

But Frank saw no likely sniper posts, no suspicious vehicles, and no one else taking any special interest in the man by the phone. Too far away to hear the ring, he saw Milt twitch and grab for the phone hastily. It wasn't a long conversation, and Hardcastle was scribbling something down as he listened.

The other party must've hung up. The judge was standing there, staring at the receiver for a moment before he put it back on the hook. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, and then scanned the surroundings carefully, one more time. _Ex-cop, my foot; he'll always be one._ Finally he walked back to his car, got in, and pulled away. Frank followed at a decent distance.

**00000**

_New game, new rules. No hood. _On the other hand, they'd stuck to back roads and areas that were nearly deserted on a Sunday morning. McCormick hadn't quite made up his mind about what he would do if, say, a police car were to show up. He knew damn well he wasn't going to try to get the attention of any innocent bystanders. He didn't much care what happened to him any more, but he hated the idea of taking someone else down with him.

Tilton had already made one stop--a public phone at a quiet intersection. He'd left the car door open and the gun discretely in his overcoat pocket. The conversation had been short and consisted mostly of directions. _We're meeting somebody. Wonderful . . . replacement goons._

**00000**

"It's his game, his rules," Frank protested.

"Has been all along, Frank."

"Now he tells you to go to some place up in the Godforsaken mountains and you _go_?"

"Well, that's why I think you should stay here. But I think if he was planning on shooting me again, he just would've gone and gotten it over with back at the phone." Hardcastle looked down at the piece of paper grimly. "I don't think that's on his 'to-do' list today."

"Well," Frank sighed, "I'm sure as hell not letting you go up there by yourself. Mark'd kill me."

**00000**

Tilton had gotten back into the car looking very pleased with himself. "Mark," he said expansively, "you really are turning out to be quite a _useful_ person."

McCormick considered this, then put it to the back, filed under Things to Worry About Later. And, since he was assuming there wasn't going to _be_ a later, it didn't matter how much went into _that_ file.

Tilton went on, practically humming to himself, "Now that we have all our chores done, I say we should take it easy for a little bit. Fortunately, I made some alternate arrangements."

**00000**

They'd taken the truck, twisting up into the mountains on the route that had been given to the judge. Frank didn't attempt concealment; they'd decided that extra eyes were more valuable. But the trip was uneventful. It ended, with half a mile of dirt track, at a kept-up, but empty-appearing vacation home, neat and tidy, with a utility shed around the side, and no vehicles in sight.

Hardcastle got out and, with no regard for caution, walked up to the front door. Frank paused for a moment, watching for any sign of trouble, then followed him. The door was ajar; the judge pushed it open slowly with one hand. Inside was a front room, sparsely furnished with the practical, boring sort of furniture that is left for renters.

There was a hallway leading back through the house. They could see the outlines of a kitchen at the far end. A room to the right, and one to the left—they were both bedrooms. The smaller one was poorly lit with one overhead light and a shuttered window. It had an unmade bed. Hardcastle stepped in. The sheets were thrown back and there was . . . sand scattered on bottom sheet, and a smear of blood on the pillow.

Hardcastle's face had become _set_. He looked around the room, seeing nothing more. They both stepped back into the hallway. The other bedroom was non-descript. If anyone had slept there, they had tidied up. The next door down was the bathroom, with something on the floor that stopped the judge in his tracks--a rumpled shirt--more blood, not just streaks, a lot of dirt and, he had reached down to touch it, still damp with sweat.

He would have picked it up, he honestly was just a moment away from it, when Frank stayed his hand and said one word, "Evidence."

He froze, then stood up slowly. Frank had already turned and left the room. He was still staring down at the thing on the floor when he heard Frank's voice from the back of the house, loud and a little higher pitched than ordinary.

"Milt, we got something back here in the yard."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Hardcastle followed Harper's voice into the kitchen and then joined him at the back window. He opened his mouth to ask what had the detective so agitated, but his eyes had followed Harper's gaze to the yard and he suddenly found that no sound was possible. In truth, just breathing had unexpectedly become a challenge, and he took a moment to focus. _In. Out. In. Okay, I got it now._

No conscious thought had directed him toward the door, though his brain did engage just in time to keep him from barreling over the man blocking his exit. "I need to get out there, Frank."

"No. You don't."

The firm conviction of the words surprised the judge and he took a half step backward. "What?" He shook his head quickly, wondering briefly if his head wound was suddenly causing some kind of delirium. "I need to get out there," he repeated, and started around the detective, only to find the other man in his path again. "Frank…" the word had a decidedly threatening tone, but Harper stood his ground.

"What do you think you're going to find out there, Milt?" the lieutenant demanded. He hated to be so blunt; he knew precisely what Hardcastle thought he would find. But this had gone on long enough. Things were out of control, and someone had to restore some order.

"I think…" Hardcastle let the words trail off, unable to complete the thought. He could no longer see the yard outside the window, but the image of the freshly mounded dirt was as clear as if it were right in front of him. He shook his head again. Harper had picked a hell of a time to get stubborn. He let his eyes meet the detective's. "I can't leave him out there." He paused, then added, "I _need_ to get out there. Let me pass."

For just a moment, Harper worried that Hardcastle might physically remove him from the doorway. Then he worried that his resolve wasn't strong enough to withstand the torment raging in his friend's eyes. But in the end, neither man moved as years of friendship gave them the strength to get through the moment.

Finally, Harper spoke again. "I'm not giving up, Milt," he began, "and I don't want you to, either. But we need some help now. It's time for us to quit doing this on our own."

"But McCormick…" Hardcastle raised his hand wearily to gesture toward the yard, then let it fall limply back to his side.

"We don't know that," Harper insisted with a slight shake of his head, though he thought his sudden desire to rein in this independent investigation might have less to do with protocol and more with the idea that a man should never have to dig his best friend out of homemade grave.

"But, Milt," Harper continued, "whatever we find out there—and I'm sorry—but whatever is out there is a crime scene. _If_—God forbid—it is Mark, don't you want to preserve the evidence that will convict Tilton? We need to do this right."

Hardcastle held his friend's gaze for a long moment, then finally yielded. "I suppose evidence might be helpful, just in case."

The detective's eyebrow rose in sudden puzzlement. That was not the kind of agreement he'd been after. "Just in case _what_?" he demanded. And as Hardcastle turned away, the muttered reply was the last thing Harper wanted to hear.

"Just in case he gets away from _me_."

**00000**

"Where are we going anyway?" McCormick asked. He didn't really expect an answer, but he had discovered that the silences with Tilton were almost as unnerving as the conversations.

Tilton barely spared a glance at his passenger, but he smiled warmly. "Home."

McCormick felt a brief moment of unexpected hope. _The cops will be watching his house. _Followed immediately by, _Though it might be easier if they weren't. Let's get this over with. _

Almost as if reading his mind, Tilton assured him, "We won't be disturbed," and then lapsed back into silence.

**00000**

Harper had wanted to leave the house, to call in the reinforcements from some other location, to get Hardcastle far away from this place. But the judge had been adamant about staying, and, ultimately, the detective had considered it a success that he still kept the older man out of the back yard.

On the other hand, it wasn't all that encouraging that the jurist had spent the seemingly interminable wait sitting silently in the small room that had almost certainly been McCormick's prison. Harper had first reminded him not to touch anything, then had tried unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation, but Hardcastle just sat, hands clasped in his lap, staring at the bed, which is exactly how Harper found him when it was time for the lab techs to process the room.

"He deserved better than this, Frank," Hardcastle said softly.

Unable to come up with a suitable response, Harper simply ushered Hardcastle out of the room.

**00000**

McCormick had been concerned with the familiarity of the scenery for a few minutes now. _Surely not,_ he thought. _Not even Tilton is that crazy._ But after another few miles, it seemed impossible that they were headed anywhere other than Malibu.

_Maybe he lives nearby,_ McCormick continued his silent argument. _He did know the shoreline really well, even in the dark._ But he couldn't make himself believe it, even as desperately as he tried. _This lunatic is determined to make what's left of my life hell._ He closed his eyes briefly as they pulled into the drive at Gull's Way. "Ah, Mr. Tilton?"

"I told you we were going home, Mark," Tilton replied, his silky smooth voice sending a chill to Mark's soul. "You don't think the judge will mind, do you?" Without waiting for a response, he reached into his overcoat pocket and retrieved a set of keys. Dangling them in the air, he said, "I'm sorry, but we did have to remove these from your pocket yesterday. I assume one of them fits this gate?"

McCormick stared for several seconds before giving a single nod. "The smaller, roundish one." His mind was already calculating the contortions that would be required for a handcuffed man to get an idling car into gear and then accelerate into the gate, crushing Tilton in the process. But, true to form, the man was not careless. He shut off the engine and removed the keys before exiting the car to unlock the gate.

McCormick just sighed as he watched through the front windshield. _Better this way, anyway. At least someone will find me._

**00000**

Hardcastle stood in the kitchen, trying to answer questions, but his attention was drawn to the activity taking place outside the window. "They're taking their time," he said, jerking his head in that direction.

The Ventura County deputy glanced behind him; the forensics team seemed to have barely made a dent in their project, as they dug carefully through the dirt. "Never know what they might find," he answered, almost apologetically. "They have to be thorough."

Hardcastle tried to redirect his thoughts. "This place doesn't belong to Tilton?"

"Not _your_ Tilton," the deputy, Flores, replied. "Property deed shows it belongs to someone named Lawrence Tilton. Relative, I assume."

"Son," Hardcastle replied shortly, "deceased."

Flores jotted that down into his notebook. "And you believe that the senior Tilton is responsible for kidnapping Mr.….ah…McConnell?" He flipped through his notebook, trying to verify the information.

"McCormick," the judge corrected angrily, "Mark McCormick. And it's not a matter of what I _believe_, that's what happened. The only thing I'm waiting on you guys to tell me is whether kidnapping has turned into murder."

And then Frank was there, turning him gently but firmly toward the other room. "Deputy Flores, would you excuse us for a moment, please?"

When they reached the living room, Harper spoke. "Milt, will you please let these people do their job without giving them a lot of grief? We've got Ventura County and Ojai P.D. here, and I've called one of my detectives up here to be the official liaison for LA once I'm gone." Seeing Hardcastle's expression of concern, he immediately continued, "Don't worry; it's Lee Barkus. You know him."

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded, "I do. Okay."

"Anyway, they know what they're doing; it just takes some time."

"I know that," the judge snapped.

"I know you know," Harper replied patiently. "But I also know why you need to be reminded right now. We're a little bit out of our jurisdiction here, Milt; let the professionals do their job."

Hardcastle took a breath and nodded again. "I just need to know for sure."

**00000**

"Judge Hardcastle?"

The jurist looked up to find Deputy Flores stepping out onto the front porch—the best place he had found for staying out of the way. "Have they finished with the…out back?"

The deputy shook his head. "Sorry; not yet. Soon, though. But I wanted to ask if you know anything about the stuff in the house."

"What stuff? We didn't really search the place." _Waiting for the professionals,_ but he kept the thought to himself.

"There's some kind of surveillance set-up," Flores explained. "A listening station; receivable only. We found it in the back of a closet. Nothing going on, though, if it's tied into anything. I just wondered if you had any ideas."

"Oh, I have some ideas," Hardcastle answered, as he followed the deputy back inside.

They found one of the technicians carefully dusting the compact electronic contraption. "Still no activity, sir," he said with a quick glance at Flores. "Though everything seems to be working properly."

"I don't think you're going to hear any activity," Hardcastle said. "My guess is that used to be patched into my house, though I don't know why he would cart the thing all the way up here."

The young tech waited for a nod from Flores, then turned his attention to Hardcastle. "Actually, sir, when I said it was working properly, I didn't just mean that it's in working order, I meant it's _working_. Right now."

"Well what's he listening to out here?" Harper demanded. "We're miles from anything."

The technician gestured to the phone receiver cradled into the contraption. "This is a separate phone line from the main number. It's dialed into something called an infinity transmitter," he explained. "It works _through_ the phone line. Reception is practically limitless. Just dial up the number and you can hear what's going on in the room."

"You're kidding," Hardcastle said.

"No."

The judge shook his head. "Unbelievable." He dismissed the idea as unimportant. "Are there any recordings?

"It does have recording capability," the technician confirmed, "but the tape in it is blank, and we haven't found any others."

"Not too surprising," the judge responded, "but it would've been nice." He turned to head back for the porch, trying not to think about how the thing that would've been nice was to hear Mark's voice just one more time.

**00000**

"What is it we're doing here again?" McCormick asked from his seat on the gatehouse sofa. His voice carried just the edge of nervousness.

After some initial acerbic comments about Hardcastle helping others rise above their station in life, Tilton had been content to sit quietly at the dining table, watching as McCormick struggled to cope with the strange concurrence of surroundings that were intimately familiar and circumstances that were anything but.

He smiled slightly at the young man's hesitant question, seeming to take some pleasure in such a minor victory. "We're meeting someone."

McCormick couldn't hide his surprise. "You're bringing someone here?"

"And why wouldn't I?" Tilton asked reasonably. The tone turned taunting. "No one else is getting any use from the place."

McCormick swallowed, and bit back a response. _New rules,_ he reminded himself. _You_ _might be useful, but he's tired of pretending he doesn't hate you._

And then they heard the muffled sound of a car coming up the drive, and Tilton rose from his chair. "Our visitor is here," he said, all charm again. "I'll show him in." He paused at the door. "You'll stay where you are, I trust."

Mark nodded in resignation. "You're the boss." He tried to ignore Tilton's satisfied chuckle as he watched the man disappear out the door.

**00000**

It only took a couple of minutes for Tilton to return to the gatehouse. McCormick could hear him as he approached the door, chatting amiably with the newcomer—whoever that might be. _I just hope this goon isn't as dedicated to his work._

Tilton sailed back inside, followed far less enthusiastically by Doug Riley. McCormick stared wordlessly, and found his own surprise mirrored on the face in front of him.

"Tilton," Riley whispered frantically, "what's going on?"

"Doug, Doug, Doug," Tilton admonished, "please do not be rude. Mr. McCormick here was the one responsible for obtaining those incriminating documents for me, and he was present at Judge Hardcastle's unfortunate shooting. I believe that you can safely talk in front of him."

Riley continued to stare at McCormick, clearly not convinced that this was a good idea. "If you can trust him, why's he in cuffs?"

"Ah, so similar to some of Hardcastle's final words. You legal types do all think alike, don't you?" Tilton smiled with every appearance of truly enjoying himself, and continued quickly before Riley's confused expression could find words. "But I have secured Mr. McCormick because it is just possible he would forfeit his twenty thousand dollars in order to be free from me just as he forfeited Judge Hardcastle's generosity in order to be free of him." He had moved to stand directly next to Riley now, and slung his arm over the other man's shoulder companionably. "And it's also possible that he would try to repay my generous offer by showing up tomorrow at the courthouse and causing some sort of trouble."

Tilton's voice had taken on that calming, almost disgustingly melodic quality that McCormick had come to associate with some type of predator lying in wait for its next meal, and Riley looked like he was falling for it. His face was beginning to relax, and Mark could see the tension leave his shoulders.

McCormick was certain Riley never saw Tilton reach smoothly into his jacket for the .38, just as he was sure the man never heard his shout of warning or the shot that ended his life.

Before the body had hit the ground, McCormick found the weapon pointed in his direction, and he froze in place. He hadn't actually realized he was standing; that must've happened when he'd tried to warn Riley, though he hadn't exactly intended to do that, either. It just sort of happened. Doubtful Tilton would believe that.

"Is there a problem, Mark?" Apparently, Tilton didn't consider the dead man lying in the spreading pool of blood a problem.

McCormick shook his head wordlessly.

"I think the cops were on to him," Tilton said by way of explanation. "Besides, he was supposed to take care of all the files and you ended up carrying his load. That kind of inefficiency cannot go unpunished."

_What the hell kind of rule is that?_

But McCormick nodded silently; figuring this wasn't the best time to point out that Riley would've had no way of knowing about Hardcastle's personal files.

After a moment, Tilton re-holstered his gun again, taking care to meticulously rearrange his clothes back in place. "We'll be leaving soon, Mark."

**00000**

"They've found a body."

Hardcastle and Harper whirled around on the porch at Flores' simple statement. The judge was already through the doorway and headed toward the back of the house before Harper managed to grab his arm. "Why don't you let me go first?"

Hardcastle opened his mouth to answer, realized he didn't know how to explain himself anyway, and let his eyes do the talking. Harper released his grip with a small nod. "Okay, let's go."

Hardcastle traversed the house quickly and Harper was almost trotting to keep up with him as he crossed the yard, but when he got close enough to see the shape of the black bag, the judge stopped short. _How can I…?_

_Because you have to,_ his mind answered.

_Because it's your fault._

_Because he would, if it were you. _

He closed the few remaining feet between them, and squatted down slowly. He felt Frank's reassuring presence as he reached for the zipper, and everything around him swirled into a muted background until there was only him and the bag. With a final prayer for strength, he pulled down on the zipper, and as he stared into the lifeless face, everything went gray.

He thought he was in that grayness for days, staring at an unfamiliar face, knowing a life was lost, but feeling only happiness and relief. But he could hear Harper's whoop of joy, feel his hand clapping him on the back, and color slowly returned.

Hardcastle rose and turned to face his friend, feeling the smile on his face. "It's not Mark," he said, needing to say it aloud.

Harper's head bobbed up and down as he steered the older man away from the scene. "It's not Mark," he repeated happily, and for just a moment, nothing else mattered.

**00000**

McCormick was walking dutifully toward the drive when Tilton's voice stopped him. "Not just yet, Mark. There is one other piece of business we need to take care of here." He gestured toward the main house. "After you."

_Now what?_ He decided that was actually a fair question, if he could do it without the irritation. "Now what, Mr. Tilton?" _Not bad._

Tilton shrugged slightly. "I would just like to make sure the judge didn't have anything else that belongs to me. Besides," he went on as they walked, "a guy like him, you never know what kind of things might be lying around for the taking. Information—such as that he had on me—can be very valuable. I have always believed in taking advantage of opportunity." He glanced over at the young man. "And what about you, Mark? Anything inside that you wish you could have taken long ago, if only for the chance? Such a financially motivated young man as yourself; some of his stuff must be worth a pretty penny."

McCormick just shook his head slightly and didn't answer. But Tilton grabbed his arm and jerked him forcefully to a stop just as they reached the porch. "Or is it possible," he said harshly, "that you didn't have to steal? Maybe all you had to do was ask."

_Don't look away!_ McCormick's mind instructed frantically. _He's fishing. He's messing with your mind. That's all._ He succeeded in holding his gaze steady, but he couldn't force words from his throat. _How can this guy know so damn much?_

Tilton tried again. "Is it possible that you have realized that Hardcastle really did present you with an amazing opportunity? Have you begun to wish you'd been more grateful?"

And suddenly, McCormick could feel the futility of…everything. _Just tell him the truth,_ his brain finally relented.

_What truth?_ He argued with himself. _That he was my best friend? That he probably saved my life with his crazy Lone Ranger and Tonto idea? That I can't imagine being here without him? Is that the truth you're talking about?_

_Yes._

McCormick stiffened almost imperceptibly as his resolve returned. He knew he wouldn't be telling Tilton anything about Hardcastle; it wouldn't be fair. _Because I never told him._

Watching his prisoner closely, Tilton seemed to understand how close he had come to breaking through, but he also seemed to recognize when the moment passed. With a thoughtful smile, he held up a key on the ring. "Is this the one?"

McCormick nodded slowly, then stepped into the house as the door was pushed open. He paused in the entryway, almost overwhelmed by the sudden rush of memories. Why was he looking for Hardcastle to come walking down the stairs or out of the den, when he knew that would never happen again?

As Tilton closed the front door behind them, he glanced toward the interior double-doors, open and inviting as always. "I think this is a waste of time." _Don't make me go in there._ But Tilton was nudging him forward, so he crossed to the den, but he stopped just inside the doors as Tilton continued down the steps into the room.

Unreasonably, the sight of that man in the judge's personal space angered McCormick more than anything that had been done to him this weekend, and he clenched his teeth to keep from blurting words that would've blown his cover story with the first syllable. He took a breath, then plunged ahead. "This is where Hardcastle kept his files and stuff, so whatever you're looking for would be here."

"Sort of the inner sanctum, right, Mark?"

McCormick nodded silently as he found himself thinking that it would be okay if Tilton decided to end it all right here. _At least I'd die at home._

**00000**

They were on the porch again, introducing Barkus to Flores, and going through a quick debriefing. Hardcastle's interest in staying at the house had ended twenty minutes earlier at the gravesite, but he deferred to the logic of waiting on another representative of the LAPD.

"So why did he send you up here?" Barkus asked.

Hardcastle was still grinning, and didn't even care that he'd already answered this question about half a dozen times before for the various represented agencies. "Because he could," he said simply. "Because it's his game. Because he wants me to know he's calling the shots."

"You think McCormick is still alive?"

The grin faded slightly. "Yeah, I do, but I don't know for how much longer." He glanced over at Harper. "We're gonna have to find him soon."

Harper nodded. "Barkus, we're gonna head back to the station. You stay up here and- -"

"Deputy Flores," an officer interrupted from the doorway, "we've got something on the receiver."

Within seconds they were crowded into the bedroom, eavesdropping on a private conversation.

"…told you; I don't think he had time to make copies."

McCormick's voice could be heard through the speaker. It was hollow, crackly, and distant, and quite possibly the best sound Hardcastle had ever heard. He heard his own breath catch, and focused enough to ask a simple question. "Is it recording?"

The tech nodded quickly. "Yeah; voice activated."

"Frank, we need to get someone- - " but Harper was already directing Barkus to the other room to call and dispatch a car to Gull's Way.

They quieted quickly to hear the remainder of Tilton's response. "…to check. I thought we just discussed the importance of efficiency." The subtle intimidation was clear even through the bad connection, and Hardcastle winced. "I'm gonna kill him," he muttered, and Harper shushed him into silence.

"Well feel free to look around, Mr. Tilton," McCormick was saying, "but I don't think you're gonna find anything."

There was no talking then, but sounds could be heard, and it seemed that Tilton was making at least a cursory search through the desk and bookshelves. "Is there a safe?" he asked after a moment.

"Sure, a locked one."

"You don't have access?"

McCormick snorted. "Gutters and grass, remember, Mr. Tilton? That's a long ways from being trusted with the combination to a safe."

Hardcastle could see the speculative rise of eyebrows in the room, but he couldn't concern himself with that right now.

"Tsk, tsk, Mark. You have been so helpful up to now, first with obtaining the files and then with my personnel problems. Even the judge would probably have been impressed with the way you've managed to make this situation work to your advantage. I'd hate to think I'd lost your cooperation now." A pause. "And I do hope you don't believe that my associate was the only one capable of persuasion."

"Just open the damn thing," Hardcastle hissed.

"Look, the old donkey probably kept a few thousand dollars in that thing. Trust me, if I could open it, I would."

The expressions of the officers turned from speculative to suspicious, and Hardcastle began to think he should take the time to be concerned. But then Tilton was speaking again. "All right, then, Mark, if you're sure, we really should be going now." Seconds later, there was the sound of a slamming door, then silence.

Hardcastle glanced at his watch; the entire conversation couldn't have taken longer than a minute. "They'll never get there in time."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Even with Barkus running a lights-and-sirens escort, the drive to Gull's Way took nearly thirty minutes. Frank had insisted on taking the wheel of the truck. With no police radio, they made the drive in anxious silence, though Frank knew if there'd been good news, Barkus would have pulled over and passed the message back.

The gates of Gull's Way stood open, and a black and white was parked near the entrance. The officer waved them through. Further up the drive were another black and white, a police van, and an unmarked sedan. There was an officer on the front steps, waiting for them

"Anything?" Frank hollered as he climbed out.

A negative shake of the head from the officer. "Already hauled off. We've got a body, though, in the other house, over there." The officer was pointing back towards the gatehouse.

_Oh my God, no, he wouldn't have had time to—_Frank looked back at Hardcastle, standing frozen next to the truck. And then the officer was talking again, "A guy named Riley, someone from the D.A.'s office. Do you know him?"

The whole thing had been as fast as a gunshot and nearly as lethal. Frank closed the space between him and the judge in a couple of swift steps. "You're going to come inside and sit down, _now_." He took his elbow firmly and guided him toward the house, casting a glare at the confused looking officer as he passed.

They walked past the door of the den; inside were another officer and a detective, Bill Haversham. Frank gave him a nod and motioned him to join them. He kept Hardcastle pointed toward the kitchen and, once there, got him sitting down in a chair at the table.

"Frank, I'm okay," he grumbled, but Harper thought it had taken him a damn long time to say it.

"Yeah, I know," Frank said quietly, "just one too many gut-punches." He went to the sink and got a glass of water. "Here," he put it in the judge's hand.

Haversham was leaning against the counter, taking it all in, waiting patiently to give his report. Frank finally turned toward him and gave a nod.

"It's Doug Riley," the homicide detective began tersely. "One shot to the chest, close range." Haversham shook his head. "I knew Doug, thorough guy, professional."

The judge looked up from where he sat, locking eyes with Frank.

Haversham continued, "Any idea what he was doing out here? Had you talked to him since yesterday, Judge?"

"This morning, on the phone," Hardcastle began slowly, "early, maybe seven."

"What about? Did you make some kind of appointment?"

Hardcastle leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, looking like a man who was about to say something that was distasteful and wouldn't be received well. "Look, Detective, I had a theory. I thought Riley might be the leak to Sam Tilton. I think he was dirty." There, all out in the open.

Haversham stared at him in disbelief, "_Riley_?"

"Yeah, Riley," Hardcastle spat the name. "I fed him a line about another possible case against Tilton, then we sat back and waited for a sign. Sure enough, Tilton called me--how long did it take, Frank?"

"'Bout twenty minutes," Frank replied, laconically, "maybe a little less."

"Coincidence?" the detective looked unconvinced.

"Yeah, sure, and then Riley drives over here and decides to visit my gatehouse." Hardcastle replied,

"If you invited him--" Haversham began.

"But I _didn't_. I was up north of Simi checking out a shallow grave. He came here because _Tilton_ invited him," Hardcastle said impatiently. Then he straightened up, visibly trying to get a grip on himself. "Look, Detective, a lot has happened. Harper here can fill you in. We do know Tilton was here, probably moments before the first black and white arrived. We know he's got another man with him, Mark McCormick, my . . . assistant." He watched the detective's eyebrows rise. "Kidnapped, hostage, yesterday," Hardcastle's voice had become very emphatic. "We don't know what Tilton's driving, but they can't have gotten all that far," this last part had a rising tinge of desperation in it.

A noise at the front door, voices, one of them angry--it was Thompson, the D.A., demanding to see the judge.

He was in the kitchen doorway a moment later. "What kind of game are you playing here, Hardcastle?" he shouted as he strode in. Frank stepped between the two men, putting a hand on Milt's shoulder to keep him seated.

Harper turned to the D.A., "Listen, Thompson, we need to sit down and talk, all of us."

Thompson still stood, hands clenched. "Riley," he breathed the name. "What the hell happened to him?"

**00000**

They'd gone north again, back toward the mountains, but a different route than the trip down. Tilton seemed a little less wired. Thank God. They'd passed a black and white going southbound--lights, no sirens--within a couple miles of the estate. Mark had watched it approach with a brief twinge of hope, but it went by in a flash, not at all interested in the sedately traveling, north-bound sedan.

Tilton had roused himself from his reverie and cast a glance at his passenger. "Maybe they're headed for the estate, eh? Got out of there in the nick of time, I'd say."

Mark wasn't feeling up to answering. Tilton looked a little disappointed. The silence lasted a couple more miles; then he spoke again, in a lower, more confidential tone, "You know, this morning, when I walked up to you with that gun and you smiled at me, that was really quite remarkable."

McCormick still said nothing.

Tilton shook his head slowly. "I only knew one other person who has looked at me that way when . . . when he was that close to death." Tilton's tone was completely different now, all the unctuous menace gone out of it. What was left was cold and desperately hard. "And I don't think _he_ really believed I'd do it."

This time the compulsion to look was overwhelming. Mark turned his head just fractionally. Tilton's eyes were on the road. In profile he looked rigid, set, immovable. He hissed out the next word, "Betrayal." For a moment he said nothing more, and then, quietly, "That is the worst sin of all."

**00000**

Frank had told the story in his usual clipped style, passing lightly over the part about the file under the Coyote; it was wholly irrelevant in the greater scheme of things. When he'd gotten to the midnight assignation on Seagull Beach, Thompson had exploded in angry impatience.

"When the hell _were_ you planning on informing the proper authorities?" he shouted at Hardcastle.

"I was there, Thompson," Frank interjected calmly. "I made the call on this one. It was an undercover operation to try and recover a civilian hostage."

"I'm not so sure you're talking about a hostage," Thompson seethed. "Sounds to me like you _have_ got an accessory after the fact. Maybe he's been using you all along, Hardcastle, even got you to deliver the file to Tilton."

"He didn't need to do that," the judge answered quietly. "I was ready to hand it over."

"Yeah but this way he can collect from Tilton himself, what was it, twenty thousand?"

"This is stupid, Thompson, and you know it." The judge was reaching for something in his jacket pocket. "McCormick was a hostage, handcuffed, with a gun to his head." He pulled the Polaroids out of his pocket, laying them facedown on the table, pushing them across to the D.A. "He was trying to scam Tilton, to keep him from killing me, most likely, anything to get an edge. It didn't work."

Thompson had picked up the pictures and turned them over in his hand. He was looking closely. He blinked once and put them back on the table. "All right," he said warily, "what about Riley?"

**00000**

Tilton had settled back into preoccupied silence. They were well out of town now, maybe further than they'd come from this morning, Mark thought, and not an area he was familiar with. He was thinking about things coming in threes, and then wondering if he should include the judge in that count, though Tilton himself hadn't actually pulled the trigger. No, the count held at two, he finally decided; one more to go.

Tilton broke into this thought with a sideward look at him. "Almost there; I thought I might need a backup spot. Plan ahead. I laid in some supplies." His smile was almost kind; Mark found himself edging up against the passenger door. "This is a place I've had for a long time. I think you'll like it."

The kindness seemed to be stretching a little thin in the silence that met Tilton's comments. The man gripped the wheel tighter as he gave McCormick a longer look. "What the hell is the matter with you? Say something."

Mark jerked his head up; he'd missed some signal, a change of mood again. Tilton was coiled tight. As much as he no longer cared if he died, the idea of being beaten to a bloody pulp was not appealing. "Um, just tired, I guess," he mustered a nearly-truthful answer. Then he realized with a dull, distant shock, that he was hungry. The idea seemed traitorously inappropriate, but he blurted it out anyway, "I could use something to eat."

Tilton seemed immensely pleased at these simple admissions. "Well, of course you are," he said, nodding his concern. "You've had a busy day. All that digging and no breakfast; you look like you could use a rest." Tilton reached out and patted the younger man on the knee. "Don't worry; we'll be there soon."

**00000**

"Seventeen years," Thompson shouted. "You want me to believe that a man who'd done reliable, _professional_, work for the D.A.'s office for that long, would up and accept a bribe from someone like Tilton." The district attorney was fuming. "And yet this ex-con of yours, a guy who's only been out of the joint for, what is it?--two-three years?--_he's _above suspicion." Thompson was pacing now, shaking his head in angry disbelief.

"You know the one thing has nothing to do with the other," Hardcastle's voice was low, and very intense. "And just because I found the worm, and it was in your office all along, doesn't mean you have to try to even the score somehow."

Both men were poised on the edge of further words, when Officer Barkus appeared in the doorway. He looked around briefly, till he saw Harper standing on the opposite side of the room, preparing to physically restrain one or the other of the two combatants.

"Lieutenant? We've got a report from Ventura." He stepped hesitantly into the room. Thompson's voice had been audible well out into the rest of the house.

"What is it?" Frank asked, grateful for the distraction.

"Guy in the grave, Monte Gavone, small-time hood, mostly from back east. Prints all over the house, and the shed. One gunshot wound, back of the head, execution-style. No exit wound. Got a .38 casing at the scene."

Harper nodded. "Anything else?"

"Prints. On the shovel. Couple are Gavone's, the rest are this guy McCormick's. Same in the house, but there it's half and half."

"What about Samuel Tilton?" Harper asked.

"Just reporting the other two, so far."

Thompson harrumphed loudly. Harper looked at the judge.

Hardcastle shook his head. "So Tilton kept his goddamn hands in his pockets. You know him, Frank; he'd let the hired help do all the heavy lifting."

"Yeah," Frank replied slowly, "_I_ know that, Milt, but--"

"Ventura County," Barkus interrupted, "they've issued a warrant for McCormick's arrest. They're calling him potentially armed and dangerous."

Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead. "Frank?"

"I'll get on it." Frank turned back to Barkus, "Look, I want you to get back up there, find Molina, work your way up the chain of command as far as you can. Try to explain things to them. If they won't listen to you, get them to call me. I'll either be here or . . . I'll let the dispatchers know where."

Barkus nodded, turned, and was gone. Frank looked back at the other two men, Thompson standing with his arms crossed, glaring down at Hardcastle as if to say 'I told you so', the judge glaring right back, defiantly.

"_Enough_," Harper heard himself interrupt an argument that hadn't even begun again. Thompson shot him a sharp look; the judge stared up in weary surprise. Frank barreled ahead stubbornly. "No disrespect, gentlemen, but you," he nodded at Thompson, "are a prosecutor, and _you_," he pointed down at Hardcastle, "are exhausted. I'm the only working cop in this room. Now listen. We find Tilton; we find Mark. Then we can all sit down and have a nice chat about exactly who did what and why.

"My guess is Tilton isn't going to run far, and he's not going to be able to check into a Motel Six if Mark looks like he did last night."

"Unless he's got him in the trunk," Hardcastle muttered.

"Milt, that's not his style. What Tilton does is _talk. _I used to think it's the stuff he put up his nose but now I'm not so sure. All I know is there's nothing he likes better than a captive audience." Frank looked briefly appalled at his choice of words, then went on quickly, "The place up in Ventura County was listed under his son's name, Lawrence Tilton."

Thompson's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know he had--"

"Long story," Frank interrupted impatiently, then he turned to Thompson face on, "What I need from you is some background work. It's Sunday; you can get at this stuff easier than I can—property tax rolls, LA and Ventura counties, I hope not San Bernardino, but maybe there, too. Anything listed under Lawrence's name, taxes probably being paid out of escrow, or by one of Sam Tilton's dummy front companies; you already know all of their names. We're looking for something rural, or maybe a warehouse. You _have_ got some other investigators besides Riley?"

Thompson nodded.

"Good," Frank took a breath, "I'm going to have my people start running the numbers, try and figure out what vehicle he might be using. Get the warrants rolling on his known LA addresses, and make sure Ventura hasn't turned something up on their neighborhood canvas, not that there's much neighborhood up there, but maybe _somebody_ saw or heard _something._ And now that we're not in double-secret mode," he added, half to himself, "I need a trace on the phone line here." Then he paused and looked at Hardcastle. "And _you . . . _" Frank glanced toward the door. "They must be finished in there by now; _you _are going to go in that den and lie down on that sofa and wait for the phone to ring."

Hardcastle opened his mouth in protest but got out not a single word before Frank concluded, "Because that's all you _can_ do right now, and staying on your feet until you drop isn't going to get Mark back one minute sooner."

"Let's move it, people," Frank addressed the D.A. and the judge as though he were in his own squad room, he himself already in motion. Then he added in gentle re-enforcement, "Milt. Sofa," hoping the man wouldn't notice the inconsistency. He didn't want to point out that the judge had fifteen years on him and, anyway, he thought he could go another twelve hours on coffee if need be. He figured that was all it _would_ be, one way or another. The window on this one was closing fast.

**00000**

Mark stared dully out the passenger-side window at the cabin nestled in among the pines. It was _cozy_. He shuddered. Tilton was already half out of the car. He looked back in and inquired solicitously, "You all right?"

"Cold," McCormick replied.

Tilton leaned back over and touched his forehead. "No, I don't think so. Maybe a little fever. You might be coming down with something. See what comes of sleeping in wet clothes?"

McCormick frowned. He felt like he'd lost track of his place on the page. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to reply; he wasn't sure it _mattered_ any more. Tilton was over on his side now, opening the door. "Up you go." His hand was under Mark's arm, lifting. He staggered to his feet, hating to lean on Tilton but having little choice. "There, now, what do you think?" The man gestured to the cabin with a smile.

"Nice," McCormick said quietly.

"See, I told you you'd like it." He led the younger man by the arm, steadying him when he half tripped over a root. "Watch your step," he admonished. "I used to come up here a lot. It's a good place to think about things." They were on the small covered porch and Tilton had the key out in his hand. The door swung open with the creak of seldom-used hinges, a faint waft of mustiness drifted out. Tilton ushered him in. "Wait here."

There was no hallway. He was inside a pine-floored room, fireplace on the left, rocker, small sofa, another chair, incidental furniture all in sixties-style rustic summer cabin. A door to the left let into a kitchen. He could see the small white enamel-topped table from where he stood. Another door at the back was closed--the bedroom, no doubt.

He shivered again and took two steps toward the fireplace, a scattering of ashes and a half-burned log resting inside, cold and untidy. He lifted his eyes to the mantle, a piece of rough slab stone, not entirely flat on the upper surface. A fishing bobber, an open book of matches, a photograph, faded color--Tilton, younger by at least fifteen years, but still the same sardonic smile, and a boy, maybe thirteen, the resemblance was unmistakable. The older man's hand rested firmly on the shoulder of the younger. _Nostalgic._

Tilton cleared his throat. Mark jumped, reflexively; the man was not two feet behind him. McCormick turned guiltily, and saw him carrying a small nylon duffle and a brown paper sack.

"Come in the kitchen, Mark," Tilton said quietly. "I'll fix us something to eat." He set the duffle down and reached into his pocket, bringing out a set of keys. "You're going to behave?"

McCormick nodded.

"Turn around then, and let me get those things off of you." It was done in a moment, the cuffs and keys back in Tilton's pocket, Mark staring down at his own hands, not quite sure what to do with them. Then a second later came the aching rush of pins and needles and he felt Tilton's hand on his shoulder. "Just sit down _here_. I'll bring it when it's ready." The man straightened up, turned briefly toward the mantle, then carried the groceries into the kitchen. When Mark's vision cleared he saw the photo had been turned face down.

**00000**

With Thompson departed, and Milt reluctantly installed on the sofa, Frank had ducked back to the gatehouse to make the necessary phone calls. Despite his exhaustion, he felt _normal_ for the first time in over twenty-four hours. It was so damn easy to get caught up in the Hardcastle sphere of influence and shove twenty-five years of police procedure right out the window. For a moment he felt a twinge of sympathy for Mark, on top of an already enormous heap of worry. _And yet the kid stays . . . himself._

Now that he'd laid out the groundwork for the investigation, and set the wheels in motion, he returned to the main house. The only thing he wasn't satisfied with was the Ventura end of it. It was hard to get very far up the chain of command on a Sunday afternoon, and the couple of guys he'd talked to had sounded unconvinced.

Still, if he heard an hour from now that Mark was cooling his heels in the Ventura County lock-up, he'd personally light a candle to St. Jude. As long as some over-eager deputy didn't shoot the kid on sight.

He let himself in the front door. Haversham and the other officers had left, gone to fill out paperwork down at the station. No one was too happy about the Riley accusations, but there'd been a sort of grudging acceptance by the time they'd departed. Frank peered into the den. It was quiet there and dim, with the afternoon sun over on the other side of the house. For a moment he thought he'd actually succeeded in getting Milt to sleep, but as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he saw Hardcastle looking up at the ceiling.

"Still awake?"

A nod.

"No calls yet?"

"None." A pause. Then, "I really screwed this one up, didn't I, Frank." Not a question, but a statement.

Frank stepped down into the room and sank into a chair, rubbed his eyes for a moment and then said, "Yeah, well, sometimes the only right decision turns out to be stupid as hell."

Hardcastle lifted his head off the arm of the couch and looked at Harper.

The lieutenant shrugged, "It's something Mark said to me one time. He was talking about why he stole the Coyote. And he said, 'Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reason.' That's how he thinks, Milt. I don't know if you're ever gonna cure him of it. Hell, I'd say you _caught_ it from him, except I think maybe you were the same way right from the start.

"Anyway, when this is all over," he paused, just a moment's hesitation, "_and_ you've got him back, you know he's gonna thank you for what you did--throwing the book out the window, saying he was more important than justice."

"Yeah," Hardcastle put his head back down on the arm rest, frowning, "he's done that, thanked me for getting him out of trouble I got him into in the first place. What makes a person do that?"

"Milt, I dunno," Frank smiled, "maybe you haven't noticed, but you're the first person in a long time who cared if he screwed up or not. That means a hell'uv'a lot to him. He'd put his hand in the fire for you."

Hardcastle's frown deepened, "He already has."

**00000**

Soup, he made soup--clam chowder with saltines on the side. He brought the two bowls in on a tray and put it down on the coffee table. Then he pulled up one of the other chairs and sat down facing Mark. "There, now."

McCormick reached clumsily for the spoon, thinking for one horrified moment that Tilton might want to help him with _that_, too. Shaking again, not good, but he managed to get the bowl into his lap without sloshing too much. Now that the food was in front of him, he found the idea of eating very unappealing. _Hardcase would say you were sick if he saw you like this._

"You are looking a bit peaked," Tilton commented. Mark dropped the spoon. "Careful," Tilton smiled, reaching down for it. Then he shook his head sadly. "Listen, Mark, enough." He leaned forward, took the bowl, put it back on the tray, and rested his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "_Enough._"

McCormick dropped his head, elbows on his knees and hands limply clasped in front of him. He tried to shy out from under the hand. No, Tilton was having none of it. The grip became firmer. "I _understand_," Tilton's voice was the very parody of understanding; it cut to the bone of kindness, "You're really not very good at lying, are you?"

_I used to be._

"This past hour I've gotten maybe fifteen words from you. This morning you almost came right out and _asked _me to kill you. What am I _supposed_ to think, Mark? The only question I have is why are you bothering to continue with this charade?" Tilton gave him a light tap on the shoulder and sat back. Then his perplexed look cleared a little, "Oh, I see. You thought maybe I'd let my guard down, allowing you to exact some revenge?" Tilton smiled and shook his head a little. "No, I don't do that for _anybody_. Never."

The shaking was worse--fear, frustration, anger, a little, but mostly a deep and abiding sorrow, now that it seemed pointless to suppress it.

"My _God_," Tilton said softly; it was an expression halfway between wonderment and disgust. "I doubt the judge would even understand . . ._ this._" He gestured with an open hand in McCormick's direction. "_That_ man had no heart."

"How the hell would _you_ know?" The younger man's voice was low, sullen and suddenly very dangerous. Tilton's hand came back to rest just above the holster of his .38.

"Now, Mark, remember what I said about _that_ tone of voice," Tilton kept his own tone even, but the thin edge of fear was visible in his eyes. Guns are only effective when dying is a viable threat.

But Mark didn't look up, and the moment passed. Tilton looked down at the untouched food. "Well, I suppose if you're not hungry, you might as well get some rest." He reached back into his pocket for the handcuffs and tossed them onto the table in front of McCormick. The gun was out, pointed steadily. "Your choice," Tilton said simply.

The younger man picked up the cuffs, considered them for a moment and gave the gun a barely concerned glance. He fastened one cuff around his left wrist. Tilton smiled, "Hope is a funny thing. Almost impossible to extinguish, isn't it?" McCormick shrugged and started to reach behind himself for the free end.

"No, no, that's fine for now. I'll just need to show you to your accommodations." Tilton had the front door open, still pointing the gun. Dusk had come quickly when the sun passed behind the hills to the west. In the deepening shadows, not far from the cabin, was the outline of a shed. Tilton pointed that way and McCormick preceded him. The door opened outward, hitching a little from disuse. Inside Tilton found a string overhead and gave it a tug. Light from a single bulb illuminated the cobwebs and the detritus of failed and unused machinery.

Tilton seemed to have a spot all picked out. He gestured McCormick to the corner, up against a heavy work table whose upright supports were bolted to the floor.

"_Mister_ Tilton," McCormick spoke as if the whole last twenty minutes had not transpired. "Any reason why my hands can't be in front of me this time? I mean, aside from pure sadism?" He kept his voice calm, without a hint of challenge, despite the words.

Tilton considered for a moment. "I suppose that is not unreasonable."

A moment later, Mark had dropped to the floor, cross-legged, and fastened the other cuff to his right wrist, with his hands on either side of the support. Tilton looked at the result closely, nodded, and then stood up. He grabbed a few burlap bags from a stack in the other corner and tossed them down in front of McCormick. "It gets a bit nippy up here at night. Good night, Mark." Then he tugged the light cord again and was gone.

As his eyes adjusted to what little twilight filtered in through the cracks in the wall boards, McCormick saw the outlines of things that he had seen more clearly a few moments ago: an ancient Vespa, leaning against the wall, a generator, partly dismantled, and, most curious among the more battered odds and ends, a heavy-duty wood chipper in what looked to be a decent state of repair.

**00000**

As dusk settled, neither of the two men bothered to get up and turn on a light. It was nearly dark when Frank finally rose, went into the kitchen, and put together some sandwiches. He needed something to do, he'd decided. It made a few more minutes pass. He had just begun to contemplate calling Thompson, when he heard the phone.

Hardcastle had it on the first ring. He hit the speaker button.

"Hello?" His voice was husky; every minute of the past thirty-four hours was audible in it.

"Did you have a nice trip to the mountains today, Judge?" The voice on the other end was smooth, very civilized, and full of polite inquiry.

"Tilton--"

"I'll talk, Hardcastle, you listen. I know I only have a little time."

Frank had already activated the tracing procedure, but at this he looked up, concerned.

"So tell me what you want, Tilton," Hardcastle replied calmly. "I'm ready to deal."

A harsh short laugh from the other end. "You only have one thing I want, Judge, and I've already got that. I just want you to know; he tried very hard. I do believe that man would have sold his soul for you."

Hardcastle had lost track of the second hand on the desk clock; he'd lost track of everything except trying to parse the meaning in Tilton's words. Past tense had taken on an ominous connotation.

As if he'd fathomed the unspoken thoughts, Tilton laughed again. "No, not yet, though he practically asked me to do it this morning. Has he been suicidal before?"

The judge said nothing. It was a monologue. He only hoped for a few moments more.

But Tilton must've been watching a clock, too. Hardcastle heard a soft exhalation. "Well, I just wanted to touch base with you, Judge. Let you know how things are going. But if you aren't interested in talking, well--"

"Wait!"

"Good-bye." A click, and silence.

Frank shook his head. "Not long enough."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Hardcastle stared at the silent phone for a long moment, piecing it all together. "Not yet," he repeated hoarsely. "God."

He rubbed a hand across his face, replaying the words from the day. _Even the judge would've been impressed. This is where he kept the files. That man would've sold his soul for you._

He looked back at Harper with a new horror in his eyes. "McCormick still doesn't know I'm alive."

Harper looked skeptical. "What? No. That's not possible. Milt, Tilton's been jerking you around all day, and Mark obviously hasn't been far away. There's no way he kept it from him."

"Frank, the kid's a prisoner. Tilton doesn't have to tell him anything. And the bastard is just sadistic enough to really enjoy watching McCormick squirm."

The detective considered, then inclined his head slightly. "Okay; I'll grant you that." And for a moment, his features were consumed with compassion. "The poor kid."

"The clock's ticking, Frank. We have to find him before…" Hardcastle hesitated, then continued, "before he does something stupid."

Harper nodded in silent understanding. Mark McCormick was capable of many things, but both men knew that controlling his mouth—or temper—was rarely one of them. To expect him to do so while dealing with the crushing grief of Hardcastle's death would be out of the question, and Tilton's punishment could be swift and final. But if it was unlikely that the young man would be able to prevent provoking his captor's wrath, it was even less likely that he would care.

Hardcastle replayed one final moment, speaking the words softly. "'He practically asked me to do it this morning.'" He sought out his friend's eyes again. "Frank…"

And for once, Harper believed baseless reassurance was exactly what the judge needed to hear.

"We'll find him."

**00000**

McCormick let his forehead rest against the wooden support, eyes closed, willing himself to make a decision. Part of him—a very large part—thought that the easiest thing in the world would be to sit right here and sleep so that he would be well rested when Tilton came back to kill him. In fact, maybe he'd get really lucky and he would still be sleeping when the bullet was finally pumped into his brain. Quick, easy, and he wouldn't have even an instant to be afraid. Yeah, something like that would be okay by him.

But there was another part—tiny and well hidden—that insisted he still had more to do. _That_ annoying little part of his brain seemed fixated on the idea that Samuel Tilton still deserved to be brought to justice, and that if he allowed himself to die here, there would be no one left to see that it was done. And when he tried making the very logical argument that there were entire departments full of law enforcement officials who could take care of that after he was gone, his brain reminded him that they hadn't managed to get it done yet. Still, he thought he had convinced himself that it really wasn't his problem.

And as the two sides of his brain argued, McCormick sat, like some kind of uninvolved observer, fully prepared to go with whichever side won. So far, he thought Large Part had the upper hand.

But that's when Tiny decided to bring in the big guns. _Is this what Hardcastle would want? For you to give up and die because of him? Is this how you repay all that he's done for you?_

Mark opened his eyes and raised his head slowly. That was definitely something to think about. He figured the judge had understood for a long time now that he was willing to die for him. That was the easy part. But it had never occurred to him that Hardcastle might expect him to be willing to _live_ for him. He thought for another few seconds, then reached beneath his pant leg and into his sock for the bobby pin.

**00000**

Lock picking could be tedious work under the best of circumstances. But in near total darkness, a rusty bobby pin the only tool, and the lock in question binding the very hands that were trying to pick it, it became almost an exercise in futility. But after many long minutes, McCormick finally heard the telltale click, and felt his left wrist released. He debated briefly just leaving the other; mobility was really the only necessity. But then he realized he was honestly completely fed up with the damned things, so he took the time to force his left hand to do the delicate work. It was minutes more before he felt the other bracelet release, but then he grabbed it off his wrist and threw the things across the floor in disgust.

He rose quickly—if slightly unsteadily—to his feet and crossed to the door. He had almost pushed it open when he realized that rushing into the night with no plan other than some strange conglomeration of justice and revenge was not likely to do much toward his newfound determination to continue breathing. He turned and leaned his back against the door, looking again around the darkened shed.

He supposed the first decision that must be made was whether he intended to simply escape and send the authorities back to arrest Tilton, or if he wanted to confront the man himself.

_Confront_, his brain scolded. _You mean kill._

He thought hard about that a moment. "I don't want to kill him," he finally muttered to himself.

_Liar._

"Okay. Of course I _want_ to kill him, but I wouldn't." _Would I?_

_You've done it before._

He conceded the truth in that argument. And, if he was honest with himself, he would admit that he _might _have been far less upset by Weed Randall's death had Hardcastle not survived. Maybe. It might be easier this time. But still…

He shook his head roughly. This hesitation was foolish. Upon a moment's reflection, leaving here without Tilton was out of the question. The man had connections and capabilities he couldn't begin to guess at. There was no way he could risk allowing him to escape. And if life or death choices had to be made later, he would cross that bridge then.

That decision made, McCormick turned his attention back to the shed. There must be something in here that would help him turn the tables on Tilton. As he looked around, he decided he must've been sitting and arguing with himself for a while, as it was much darker than it had when Tilton originally deposited him here, and it seemed to be moonlight that drifted in through the walls rather than the fading sun. He wanted to turn on the light; that would've made life a lot easier. But since it might also make life much shorter, he decided he could deal with the dark.

He crossed back to the work table, not knowing exactly what he was hoping to find, but figuring this was as good a place as any to start. He squinted down at the tabletop, and let his hands wander the surface. An old rag, undoubtedly wet and covered in some sort of grime in a long ago time, now it was shriveled and almost brittle; he tossed it aside. A ruler, worthless. A couple of those little black containers that spring time flowers come in from the nursery; a homey image, but still useless. A pencil. He paused thoughtfully, felt the unbroken lead tip, and set it aside carefully. Next came a baseball cap, youth size. He held it closer to his face and saw a knock-off of the Angels' logo. _Little league_, he thought. _Wasn't the kid in the picture wearing this?_ Mark shrugged. Interesting, maybe, but of little practical value. His hands continued to move across the counter top. _Matches!_ He fumbled quickly with the flap and counted the matches remaining inside. Only three, but if things didn't work out and Tilton kept him relegated to darkness, they might come in handy—assuming they would still work after however long. He resisted the impulse to light one now, closed the cover, and slipped them quickly into his pocket. He ran his hands to the far back corners of the table, then—satisfied he had missed nothing—turned back to survey the rest of the shed.

His eyes lingered on the Vespa against the wall for a moment. An intriguing idea, but, no. When and if he needed transportation, he'd use Tilton's car. Then his eyes came to rest on the dark shape resting beside the dilapidated generator, and he took the few steps across the floor.

Squatting down for a better look, he saw that it was a small toolbox. He smiled, and opened the lid. Rummaging through the items, he felt a twinge of disappointment—not quite as helpful as he had hoped. A few assorted wrenches, a couple of screwdrivers, a small garden spade, and a hammer. In the bottom tray there was only a small supply of various types of hardware, and what appeared to be an instruction manual for the wood chipper he'd seen earlier. He chose the common screwdriver and slipped it into his shirt pocket, then grabbed the hammer and the manual and rose to his feet.

He walked slowly around the small area, but nothing else seemed worthwhile. Really, the only other things in here were some fishing poles and the wood chipper, so unless he planned on making Tilton the punch line of an amazing 'I hooked a big one' tale, or turning the man into next season's mulch, there wasn't much to be gained.

McCormick smiled grimly as he thought that those ideas might actually have some merit. But, tempting as it seemed, he was pretty sure that was just the last couple of days talking.

Having completed his search, he crossed back to the worktable. Placing the tools on the top, he looked at them forlornly. He was sure some serious damage could be done—somehow—with a hammer and a screwdriver, but he wouldn't have minded having something more _menacing_. After all, Tilton did still have a gun.

McCormick leaned his elbows on the tabletop and rested his chin on his palms. He thought this would probably seem much simpler if only he wasn't so damned tired. "And if I wasn't alone," he whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting just one minute to just…_feel_. "God, Judge, I am so sorry."

**00000**

They were both unexpectedly dozing when the second phone call came, but Hardcastle grabbed the receiver up before the second ring, and Harper had the trace initiated as soon as the line was connected.

The judge forced the fear from his voice. "Hardcastle."

"Is Harper still there?"

He scowled and handed the phone across the desk. "It's Thompson."

The lieutenant shut down the trace and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, Harper."

"Got a possible location for you, Lieutenant," Thompson replied, sparing no time for pleasantries. "Cabin up at the edge of the Padres, place called Matilija."

"Tilton's?" Harper asked, motioning for something to write with.

"Kinda weird, really," Thompson said. "It was, but it looks like he gifted it to his son on the kid's eighteenth birthday. Then, a few years after that, it was signed over into a corporate holding. It still belongs to the company."

"Yeah, that sounds promising," Harper agreed. "Give me the details." He scribbled down the directions the D.A. rattled off. "Okay. Barkus is still up in Ventura, so I'll have him bring in the local side, and I'm headed up there now. You keep your guys working in case this doesn't pan out. I'll be on the radio," he added, briefly grateful that he'd thought to have one of his officers bring his car back from Canoga Park, "and later, Ventura dispatch should be able to track me." He waited for Thompson's grumble of understanding, then hung up the phone. He started to lift the receiver again to dial another number when Hardcastle's hand came down heavily to keep it on the cradle.

"You can't call Ventura, Frank."

So many unexpected things had happened since Friday night, Harper wasn't even surprised anymore. "Any particular reason why not?" he asked in an even tone, as if there could be a logical reason for not sending every available officer to descend upon the likely location of the men they'd been hunting for the last two days.

"Yeah," Hardcastle answered emphatically, "because they think McCormick's involved in this mess." He saw Harper begin to object, and hurried on. "Hell, Frank, probably half the guys _here_ think he's involved, and they _know_ the kid. You send strangers after him, and Tilton's gonna end up the least of his worries. I can't let that happen. I'll go after him." The judge grabbed Harper's note, rose from his chair, and was halfway to the door before the lieutenant completely made his decision.

"Milt."

Hardcastle slowed his step and turned a question to the other man. "You comin'?"

Harper didn't move. "We call Ventura when we get to the cabin. We are not going in alone."

It took a couple of seconds, but Hardcastle recognized the immovable force. He gave a single nod of assent, and turned purposefully back to the door. "Let's go get him."

**00000**

Mark McCormick thought it was possible he was crazy. Really. Thought maybe he had stood right here in the dark and gone 'round the bend. He had only intended to take a moment, just a brief respite from the strain of the last two days, but he had allowed his mind to wander past the weekend and over the last few years.

When the memories first crowded into his mind, he had been overwhelmed with grief, unable to fathom how he was supposed to go on without the man who had become like a father to him. Then, he had taken comfort from the memories, and he found himself smiling as the images played across his mind. But it had become easy to stay in the happier past rather than face the here and now, and he was unsure how long he had stayed there, lost in things that could never be again.

He rubbed his hands harshly across his eyes, thinking he might've been standing there a minute or a day; it really was all the same to him. _And really, only a crazy person zones out like that, right?_

"Wrong," he answered himself aloud, then laughed slightly. _But only a crazy person has a conversation with himself. _He shrugged off the idea. "Oh, well." He might be determined to stay alive, but he figured sanity was still a fifty-fifty proposition. And in that moment—when overpowering Samuel Tilton was furthest from his mind—he had an idea. He turned quickly to study the shed, wondering again if he could risk the light. _Not_ _yet,_ he decided, _but soon._

Moving with determination now, he snatched up the screwdriver, went to retrieve the toolbox, grabbed a couple of the burlap sacks from the corner, and dropped the entire collection down beside the wood chipper. Then he folded his legs and plopped to the floor. He ran his hands slowly around the edge of the out chute of the chipper, locating the simple screws that held it in place. He chose a screwdriver, then guided the tip into place and began removing the hardware. Once he had the chute set aside, he felt for the screws that would hold the covering on the shaft of the machine and set about removing them, as well. Finally, he completed that task, grabbed the casing, and jostled it until he was able to lift it away from the body of the chipper. With that out of the way, he turned his attention to the sack at his side.

McCormick took his screwdriver and drove the tip through the burlap, pulling it downward the length of the sack, then repeated the motion until he had separated three strips of the material. He put them on the floor at his side, then turned back to the chipper. Starting at the bottom, he dragged his hand very slowly along the distance of the shaft until he reached the cutting area. _Good_. A straight blade and not a disc. He carefully traced his hand through the area and across the blade, which was naturally attached much more securely than the outer casing had been. Even so, only a few more screws, some nuts and bolts, and one last protective guard stood between him and his goal. He decided he would remove the shield before risking the light, but only a fool would sit in the dark and try to remove a solid steel, eight-inch, dual-head blade from a machine he'd never seen before.

Still working by touch, he removed the fasteners on the blade guard. As he tugged the shield loose, he heard something fall to the floor, but he didn't give the sound much thought. Now that the cutting blade was completely exposed, his only thought was how quickly he could turn it into a manageable weapon. He rose and crossed to the middle of the floor, reached up and pulled the string to turn on the light, then returned to the chipper without further thought. He understood that the same wall cracks that had allowed the moonlight to filter in would also allow this light out, but the decision was made. Tilton would either notice or he wouldn't, and the possibility of discovery wasn't going to stop him at this point. Mark McCormick was tired of being a pawn; it was time to regain some control.

His growing determination was pulled up short for just a moment, however, when he kneeled down beside the wood chipper. He had reached down to move the blade guard out of the way when he noticed a piece of twig on the floor, probably the thing that had fallen out when he pulled the shield off the shaft to begin with. He picked it up and started to toss it aside, but its unusual texture caused him to take a closer look. McCormick felt his gut clench suddenly, and he swallowed hard as he stared at the whitish, slender stick in his hand and decided it was actually a human bone.

He was still staring after several long seconds, his mind refusing to accept what his gut already knew to be true. This bone—_part of a_ _finger, maybe_, his mind whispered—had fallen out of the wood chipper, where it had been jammed for who knew how long. That was certainly unusual. _There's an explanation._ But any possible explanation for stray body parts stuck inside power garden tools could only lead back to Tilton, and McCormick felt a shiver run down his spine.

Finally, without really knowing why, McCormick slipped the thing into the pocket of his denim shirt, then tried to push it out of his mind. But he returned to the task of removing the blade with an added motivation: whatever might happen tonight, he did not intend to end up the next thing to be shoved through this machine.

**00000**

McCormick was standing at the worktable again, his knife at his side. He had wrapped one end in layers of burlap strips, giving himself several inches of area to safely grasp the weapon. He'd seen a lot of things turned into piercing attack weapons, and the key always seemed to be the idea that a good grip leads to a good thrust. He would've preferred finding a way to actually put a point onto the thing, but, still, the blade was almost one hundred percent cutting area; slashing and slicing would have to do. Of course, there was no denying that bullets would always have an inherent advantage over blades, but he was as prepared as he could be. He had also taken the time to retrieve the handcuffs from their spot on the floor, realizing that he would need some way to restrain his prisoner, if everything went as planned. As he'd stuffed them into his pocket, he made a fervent wish that the things weren't going to end up locked around his own wrists again.

Now he was finishing up a note addressed to Frank Harper. He thought maybe if he didn't survive, his written accusations could serve as something similar to a deathbed statement. Somebody really should know that he'd witnessed Tilton commit two separate murders; that just wasn't the kind of information Tonto could keep to himself. Finally satisfied that he had included enough details to be useful, he signed his name, placed the screwdriver on top to keep it in place, then turned and crossed to the door, blade in hand. He paused just long enough to draw in a fortifying breath, then pushed open the door and slipped into the night.

There was nothing to be gained by moving slowly across a clearing when a madman with a gun might be waiting for the opportunity to start shooting, so he sprinted across to the cabin. He leaned lightly against the door, listening intently, though he wasn't sure exactly what he might hear. He thought it would be excellent if Tilton had simply gone to sleep after locking up his prisoner for the night, but he didn't really expect to be that lucky. He debated between the idea of taking a look inside the window—where he himself might be seen—or simply using the element of surprise and busting in without warning, but quickly decided he'd rather have some idea what he was busting in to. He moved to the edge of the window, then peered cautiously inside, but the front room was empty. Tilton had taken the time to build a small fire, but there was no sign of the man himself. McCormick watched for a few seconds to see if he would appear from one of the other rooms, but the cabin remained silent and still. Deciding maybe he was going to get lucky after all, he pushed open the front door—wincing slightly at the unavoidable creak—and followed it inside.

McCormick stood, just inside the doorway, crouched defensively, chipper blade firmly grasped in his hand, ready to take on whatever came, but still there was nothing. He took a couple of steps to his left and craned his neck to see as far as possible into the kitchen, but there seemed to be no movement in there, either.

To the right of the fireplace, the bedroom door was standing slightly ajar, so McCormick started in that direction, taking the time to close the front door as he passed. He listened briefly outside the bedroom door, but there was no sound, so he slipped inside. It only took a few seconds to realize the room was empty, including the small bathroom and closet. "Where the hell is he?" McCormick muttered as he pulled the bedroom door closed behind him.

He crossed the front area back toward the kitchen and stepped purposefully into the room. Empty. "Dammit!" McCormick paused his search at the kitchen table and took time to examine the items spread out on the tabletop. He wasn't particularly surprised to see the remnants of fine, white powder sprinkled on one corner of the table, though the idea of tracking a coked up Tilton through the nighttime woods conjured up some fairly nightmarish images. He was surprised, however, by the photographs that were spread across the table, and by the gun lying beside them.

McCormick pulled the gun within easy reach, then picked up one of the photos. It showed two men sitting in a diner having a serious conversation, if the expressions on their faces could be believed. He stared for a moment, then touched his fingertips gently to the face of Milton Hardcastle that looked out from the picture. The judge was younger, but clearly just as irascible; his mouth was drawn into a familiar determined frown, and his eyes gazed intently at the other man. McCormick smiled slightly, but the picture confused him. Across the table from Hardcastle sat a much younger Tilton, and Mark couldn't understand what would possess the judge to ever share a meal with that madman.

He shuffled through the other pictures, all of the same two men, though they showed at least three different meetings. These were obviously surveillance photos, but who knew why they were being watched. But then he looked more closely and McCormick's brain did the math. Either the judge was too old or Tilton was too young in these photos; it didn't add up. Then he remembered the other picture, the one on the mantle. _Tilton's_ _son._ These pictures were obviously more recent than the one from the living room, and the pieces were beginning to click into place. Hardcastle was meeting repeatedly with Tilton's son, and someone had been watching them. Since Tilton himself was the one in possession of the photos, he had probably ordered the surveillance originally, and McCormick could only imagine how displeased he had been with the results. He remembered Tilton in the car earlier today, coldly whispering the word 'betrayal', and he finally understood. Somehow, Hardcastle must've tried to use the younger Tilton against his father, and if Tilton felt betrayed, the judge must've been at least partially successful.

McCormick sank into the chair, considering. Neither he nor the judge would've admitted it, but Hardcastle really had become like a surrogate father to him. He understood now that somehow using that relationship against Hardcastle had been Tilton's intention all along, and he felt a renewed wave of guilt, wondering if he had made a mistake in his handling of this whole situation. But before he could travel too far down that path of self-recrimination, he remembered more of Tilton's words: _I don't think he really believed I'd do it._ "My God," McCormick whispered to himself. "He killed his own son."

He rose quickly, more certain now than ever that Tilton had never intended to allow him to live through this weekend, and as he stood, a flash of movement through the kitchen window caught his attention. He moved to the sink to peer out into the night, but there was no one there. But there was a small circle of light out in the yard, coming from a hurricane lamp sitting on the ground under a large tree. And from one of the branches hung a single swing seat, which was now moving more forcefully than the gentle breeze could be responsible for.

McCormick had made it back to the table and snatched up the gun before he heard the creak of the front door and saw Tilton move into the kitchen entry. Mark was pretty sure the glaze in the other man's eyes and the strangely placid expression on his face was more than drug induced. He swallowed hard and pointed the gun in Tilton's direction.

The older man didn't even acknowledge the weapon. "I thought maybe you'd join me at your swing." He paused, then added calmly, "I see you found the pictures. I was wondering if you would care to explain?"

McCormick stared at him. "Explain? What are you talking about?"

"Larry," Tilton replied disapprovingly. "Lawrence. This is no time to lie to me."

McCormick was still staring, though he decided immediately that his own sanity was no longer in question. Standing before him was the true picture of mental instability. He decided to ignore it. He waved with the gun and spoke evenly. "Just turn around, Tilton." He pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket, but Tilton wasn't moving. "I said, turn around."

But Tilton simply smiled. "You don't really think I'd leave a loaded weapon lying around, do you, Larry? You've always been far too inquisitive for that; you could hurt yourself."

McCormick didn't move, unsure whether to believe the words, and cursing himself for not having taken the time to check. Certainly, Tilton was insane. And apparently, he was stoned. But those conditions weren't new, and it occurred to Mark that Tilton had made it through the past two days without being careless; there was no reason to believe that pattern had changed now. He didn't lower the gun. "Inquisitive people know how to look for things, Tilton. _You_ don't really think I wouldn't find the ammunition?" McCormick allowed a smug tone into his voice as he mimicked Tilton's words, and he saw the uncertainty slip into the other man's eyes.

"What did Hardcastle offer you?" Tilton asked suddenly, and the words were unexpectedly difficult for the ex-con. But Tilton was continuing. "What could he possibly give you that you couldn't get from me? How could you choose him?"

_He's not talking to you,_ McCormick's brain whispered anxiously, _so keep your cool. _But he couldn't keep quiet. "Freedom from the past," he answered harshly, "a future. Nothing you could ever understand, and everything that you could never be."

And in the one instant of silence that followed, as Tilton tried to make sense of McCormick's words, they could hear the faint but unmistakable sound of sirens in the distance.

**00000**

"Who the hell was that?" Hardcastle shouted as first one and then another black and white blazed past them, sirens blaring. On this lonely stretch of road, in these circumstances, it was unlikely the patrol cars were headed anywhere other than Tilton's cabin. He glared over at Harper. "Did you call someone?" he accused.

The detective didn't bother to point out that there had been no opportunity for any covert phone calls; Hardcastle was too worried to understand how irrational he was being. "Of course not," Harper answered calmly, then flipped on his own siren and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

**00000**

McCormick saw Tilton begin his lunge across the room and he pulled the trigger without thought. There was no blast, and he had only an instant to see the laughter in Tilton's eyes before the man was upon him. He fell back into the table, but managed to bring the gun smashing against Tilton's head, buying himself just a bit of time.

As Tilton staggered, McCormick shoved him backward and rolled out from underneath, tossing the gun aside and grasping his knife firmly. He moved quickly into the kitchen entryway; he did not intend to allow an escape. "It doesn't have to end like this," he shouted, as Tilton began gathering himself for another attack. "You don't have to die here!"

But there was no sign of reason in Tilton's eyes as he swung one of the aluminum chairs in front of him and charged across the room. He let the protruding legs serve as both a shield to keep McCormick out of blade's reach and a weapon as he slammed them into the younger man's torso. McCormick fought back a screech of pain as he felt the injuries from his previous beating come alive with renewed pain, and he stumbled back into the living room, clutching at his side.

"You should not have betrayed me!" Tilton screamed as he raised the chair to swing it at Mark's head.

McCormick ducked—just barely in time—and tried to come up behind Tilton, bringing his blade toward his attacker's arm. He didn't score the direct hit he was hoping for, but did manage a small slice just above the elbow. He ducked again as Tilton swung back around, and he found himself wondering why he had spent so much time dismantling a wood chipper when, apparently, a kitchen chair was a perfectly functional weapon.

The ex-con rose and backed away, still keeping himself between Tilton and the door, but trying to put some distance between them. He could hear the sirens getting closer now, and he thought maybe he could just stay out of reach long enough to let the cops get here and do their thing.

But Tilton wasn't prepared to make this easy. "Traitor!" he shrieked, and rammed the chair toward McCormick.

"I'm not Larry!" McCormick shouted, as he sidestepped the attack, then reached out and grabbed one of the chair legs, using Tilton's own momentum to propel him against the cabin wall. He figured Mark McCormick was high on this madman's To Kill list, but it seemed Larry Tilton held the top spot, and he wouldn't mind giving the guy back some perspective. He twisted and pulled on the metal leg, trying to wrench the chair from Tilton's grasp. He finally gave a short tug on the leg, pulling Tilton closer for just a moment, then brought his knife across the other's forearm, causing the chair to be completely released. But McCormick was unprepared to have his own momentum trick used against him, and Tilton immediately followed after the freed chair, leaning into it, and driving the younger man backward until he sprawled over the end of the sofa.

As Tilton angrily threw the chair aside, McCormick struggled to rise from the sofa, but he already knew the effort was futile. The sirens were coming to a stop now, and he could see the flashing lights outside the front window, but it was too late. With all his might, he reached upward and sliced his blade across Tilton's stomach, then twisted it into the gash to drive it further into the man's gut. He heard the other man's roar of pain as he felt himself dragged upward, then his head exploded as Tilton's fist slammed into his jaw.

He had been dropped fully back on to the sofa, and McCormick watched through blurry eyes as Tilton reached down and quickly pulled the knife from his own body. Fighting for consciousness, he swung his fists limply as he saw the blade turned downward, but the feeble blows were useless against Tilton's rage. He watched Tilton raise the knife, preparing for a final, killing blow, and he could hear the officers outside rushing toward the cabin. He forced his eyes to look in Tilton's direction, though he could barely see. "Hardcastle wins," he whispered as the knife began its descent.

"MCCORMICK!"

The shout of his name and the deafening gunshot were the last things he heard as darkness claimed him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The single gunshot had created a momentarily frozen tableau. Then the purposeful descent of the blade turned into a downward drift, as Tilton himself staggered backward a step and then crumpled to the floor.

Hardcastle saw none of that. His eyes were on the man's intended victim. McCormick hadn't been fighting back as the knife descended. Now he was sprawled across the sofa, pale and unmoving, the front of his denim shirt soaked in blood. _Breathe, dammit_.

He stepped forward, almost hesitant. The Ventura County officers pushed past him, eager to reestablish control. His own shot had been the only one fired. Frank, who'd wielded his detective's shield in the front yard when they'd pulled up, screeching, between the black and whites and the door, now stood behind him a step, with one hand on his shoulder.

Then he saw the kid take a deep, shuddering breath and his eyelids twitch and blink open, staring up with no apparent focus. And the judge let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Mark?"

**00000**

_Someone's been shot_. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the familiar ringing in his ears, that much he was certain of. That and sticky dampness of his shirt and, yet . . . he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Movement, an unfamiliar ceiling, and someone calling his name. _Not me this time._

**00000**

He'd said nothing, the unfocused eyes still roving randomly, but he'd reached up ineffectually with one hand when they tried to get at his shirt to see where the blood was coming from.

The judge tried to say something reassuring, found his voice hoarse with fear, cleared his throat and started again. Before he could speak the kid's eyes came to rest on him, more lucid now, but with a look of absolute bafflement.

"Hardcase?" The voice was almost as raspy as his own.

"Yeah, kiddo," Hardcastle smiled, "I told you I was too stubborn for just one bullet."

The bafflement remained, but the look was piercing now. McCormick formed the words slowly, "Don't. Joke."

"Never," the judge said, reaching for the hand that was still moving purposelessly around the unfastened shirt buttons. "_Never_."

"Not his," Frank had stopped searching, "must be Tilton's."

At the mention of that name McCormick's eyes began to rove frantically. Hardcastle grasped the hand more firmly and refocused him. "He's over there; the police have him. He's shot."

"Dead?"

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder at the heap on the floor. The police were only mildly cautious, but the chest still rose and fell in ragged gasps. "Not quite yet," he replied.

McCormick was pushing himself back against the sofa, trying to sit up. Hardcastle recognized the need for a semblance of control and that being upright was part of it. Against his better judgment, and without releasing his grasp, he assisted him.

**00000**

Frank stepped back and was looking around with a policeman's eye for detail. The arrival of the paramedics added another layer of chaos as efforts were made to stabilize the man on the floor. More Ventura County officers had arrived--sirens, lights, an ambulance pulling up.

Through it all, the man on the sofa sat quietly, watching. He still had Hardcastle's hand. The older man leaned forward and asked him something that got only a shake of the head in reply.

One of the Ventura guys was gesturing to him from the kitchen. Frank stepped past the paramedics, busily bent over Tilton's now-still form. The man by the table had a pencil in one hand, and had used the tip of it to flip over one photo of a set that had been scattered on the table and floor.

Frank bent down to study it carefully. Then he looked over his shoulder through the doorway into the other room.

**00000**

Sitting up had done nothing to improve McCormick's pallor. The only color left in his face was from the bruises, new and old, but his eyes were sharply focused now. Hardcastle kept himself between the man and what was happening on the floor. More for distraction than anything else, he asked him if he wanted to lie down again. A quick shake of the head. Then McCormick was looking back at him.

"There was something in the shed," he said quietly, "in the wood chipper. It fell out." All of this was spoken so matter-of-factly that Hardcastle found himself having to lean in to catch the words in the surrounding hubbub. "I saved it."

He was reaching into his shirt pocket with his free hand, still not letting go with the other. After a few moments of searching, he fished it out, not looking at it before he handed it over.

Bone, something small with bits of desiccated ligament clinging to one end, the whole thing yellowed with age. He couldn't say for certain if it was human, that would be for the experts, but it fit entirely too well with the rumor that Tilton had floated back to him.

_Evidence_, he thought, looking around for one of the officers, intending to get the thing properly bagged and labeled, but Tilton was being moved onto the stretcher and he saw no one free. It didn't matter, he supposed, and he held onto the small remains. _Closure._

McCormick's eyes were on the departing stretcher and its occupant. "He's still alive?" he asked with a tone that might have been detachment.

Hardcastle spared a glance at the salvage operation. "I got him pretty good."

McCormick looked wary. "Not sure one bullet was enough."

"Don't joke," he reminded the younger man.

"I'm not," Mark replied flatly.

The judge grunted and shifted himself onto the sofa, now that the gurney was gone. "You need to be checked out, too," he said gently.

"I'm okay," McCormick replied, without any of his usual stubbornness. He was watching the gloved officer handle his makeshift weapon. "The blood's not mine," he said calmly. The officer was slipping the thing carefully into a bag. "It's a blade from the wood chipper," he added with eerie calmness.

"'Those who live by the sword'--"

"Don't joke," McCormick interrupted firmly.

"That's not a joke, it's from the Bible," he feigned a little indignation, having spotted a spark and wanting to fan it desperately. But there was no bite from the kid, who sat there hunched, gradually letting loose his grip on the judge's hand.

"Milt?" Frank summoned him from the kitchen. "Take a look at this, will ya?"

Hardcastle looked up, annoyed. He slipped the bone into his own shirt pocket and gave the kid a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Just stay here a sec; I'll be right back." There was no response except a slight shrug from McCormick.

He joined Frank by the kitchen table sparing one worried glance over his shoulder.

"Looks like Tilton was going through the old family albums," Frank smiled tightly as he pointed out the photos, now all arranged on the table face up.

Hardcastle looked at them with a grim expression, as if they brought back a rush of unpleasant associations. "He had him under surveillance the whole time."

"I think it was all over for him the minute he made contact with you, Milt. Nothing you said one way or the other made a bit of difference. Tilton just played him along for a while and then reeled him in."

The judge nodded slowly and let out a weary sigh. "McCormick found something out in the shed; in the wood chipper." He extracted the bone and held it up for Frank to see.

"_Milt_," Frank's expression balanced abhorrence and annoyance pretty evenly, "you're walking around with evidence _in your shirt pocket_?" He shook his head and signaled to the evidence tech to bring a bag.

"Well," Hardcastle began apologetically, "I don't think--"

Sounds of rising voices and a scuffle interrupted him from the other room. Both men turned in alarm as they heard one of the officers shout, "What the hell?" Hardcastle was back into the main room in a few swift steps.

McCormick was back up against the wall, between the sofa and the fireplace, in a blind sweating panic, while the officer, who'd originally been reaching for him with a set of handcuffs in the other hand, now jumped back to evade his wildly flailing fists.

The man already had his free hand on his holster when Hardcastle got himself between him and McCormick. Frank was there a second later, talking the officer down with his usual calm. Hardcastle turned back to McCormick, narrowly missing a left-handed swing.

He didn't try to contain it. It barely qualified as a punch. A couple more like that and the kid would probably collapse again. McCormick was pulling back for another when his knees started to sag. Hardcastle stepped forward to steady him, then wound up catching him as he gave way completely.

"Come on, let's get you sitting down," Hardcastle huffed. "Frank, help me out here, will ya?" He heard Frank break off the discussion and move to his side. "I think he's out on his feet."

"Milt--" Frank began, as the two of them maneuvered the kid back to the couch.

He was a little short of dead weight, stumbling along between them, and Hardcastle heard a muffled murmur of "Sorry . . . dunno what happened," spoken blurrily into his left shoulder.

"'S'okay," Hardcastle patted his back, "little flashback there, maybe? Happens."

He eased the kid down onto the sofa, then turned to Frank and spoke firmly, "I want it quashed; I want it quashed _now._ We are _not_ sorting this out down at the station. If you have to, you find the idiot who issued the warrant and get him _here_."

"Well," a voice intervened from the front doorway, "I'm the idiot you're looking for. _I_ requested it." Thompson cast a jaundiced eye over the three men at the sofa.

"I was trying to tell you," Frank spoke with low urgency, "that's what the officer was saying. The Ventura County warrant _was _rescinded. When he ran the ID on Mark, he got the warrant from _LA _County."

Hardcastle stared up at the man in utter disbelief. After a moment's pause he turned to Thompson and said, in disgust, "What the hell, why don't you just go ahead and arrest _me_. That's really what you want, isn't it?"

"Milt," Frank had his hand on his friend's arm, "I don't think--"

Hardcastle shook loose. His voice dropped to a low growl. "Give him the goddamn _finger_, Frank."

Frank produced the baggie and handed it over.

"That's what's left of the last guy Tilton brought up here for the weekend," Hardcastle spoke low and emphatically to the man who was studying the bag with grim interest. "It came out of a wood chipper out in the shed."

"Who?" Thompson asked.

"Larry Tilton. The son."

Thompson blanched.

"McCormick found it. It's from eight years ago. You're not going to try and pin that one on him, too?" he added dryly. "Now Tilton is _still _alive--harder to kill than a cockroach. Four murders, and McCormick and I are your main witnesses. You really want to arrest your two main witnesses?"

Frank had slid in alongside Thompson and gently retrieved the baggie. He had him by the elbow and was preparing to steer him out to the kitchen, show him a bit more evidence and give him a moment to reconsider. In the end it wasn't necessary. Thompson made one quick grimace and turned back to one of his aides, standing out on the porch looking anxious. He gave the necessary instructions.

The officers were standing down. Thompson made a strategic retreat, going back outside to talk to one of the Ventura lieutenants. Frank had taken a walk out to the shed to see the rest of the haul. The evidence guys moved into the main room, with cameras and baggies. And McCormick was asleep.

Hardcastle had been startled when he'd turned back from dealing with Thompson and found the younger man with his eyes closed and his breathing finally evened out. He smiled to himself. The kid was unfortunately well-adapted to yelling. He was half curled on his side with his knees drawn up, leaving enough room at the foot end for someone to sit.

The judge sat. Frank would probably be a few more minutes at least. He checked his watch. Two a.m., on, now this was the tricky part, Monday morning. He eased back against the sofa, just intending to rest his eyes for a minute.

**00000**

Frank returned from the shed looking rather more thoughtful. He found the two of them on the sofa, the judge with his head lolling back, both snoring. The evidence guys were working around them but both looked peeved at the intrusion.

"Hey, Milt," he walked over and gave the judge a little thwack on the shoulder with the back of his hand. There was only a mutter. He nudged a couple of times more firmly. "Barkus is here. Came down with the guys from Ventura HC." Hardcastle was awake and blinking at him. "I figured since he's only missed _one _night's sleep, I'd let _him_ drive us home, okay?"

Then came the part where they got Mark on his feet. Frank wasn't sure he would quite call it 'awake' but, since the kid was both docile and self propelled, with no more than a hand from the judge on one shoulder for steering, he was grateful.

He got them both settled in the back seat and stuck his head in as he handed Mark's seat belt across. "Either of you guys want to stop off at the hospital?" Two shakes of two heads. "Of course not," he said blandly, closing the door and turning to get in the car.

"Is Tilton still alive?" It was Mark, the first words he'd heard out of him since they'd gotten him up to come out to the car.

Frank looked back over his shoulder at the kid. He wanted to talk to him about what he'd found in the shed, but this wasn't the time or place. He limited himself to a simple, "Haven't heard otherwise."

He climbed wearily into the front and said, "Home, Barkus."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The front had come in overnight, leaving an inch of rain whipped against the window by the northwest winds. Having slept most of Monday afternoon, Frank lay awake part of the night listening to it. He was still awake when the phone call came at 5:30 am.

Not unexpected, no, but news none the less.

Tuesday morning it was still overcast, though the rain had stopped. Hardcastle had said they'd be home. He hadn't asked if there was a particular reason for the visit. If Mark had answered, he fully expected the question would have been asked then and there.

No one was in sight as he came up the drive, and the garage doors were closed. It made perfect sense on a day like this, but it gave the impression of the drawbridges being pulled up.

But, despite the look of abandonment about the place, Milt was at the door before Frank even had a chance to ring. Hardcastle took his coat, and ushered him into the den. Frank had half expected to see Mark already ensconced there, and yet not seeing him was not surprising either. He raised an eyebrow at Milt, who knew the question without being asked.

"He went for a walk on the beach," Hardcastle grumbled. "Said he needed to get out."

Frank made a face. "A little nippy for that, don'tcha think?"

Hardcastle nodded and looked out the window at the wind playing havoc with the tree branches. "Happened right after I told him you'd called, been gone almost forty-five minutes already. I was about to send out a search party."

Frank looked concerned, "He's okay, isn't he?"

"Oh, pretty okay." The judge sat down at his desk and fiddled with a pen lying there. "He wouldn't go to the ER but I got Charlie to take a look at him yesterday. He'll _be_ okay. Needs some time, though," he added with another worried glance out the window.

"That's understandable," Frank replied, filling the silence with as few words as possible, but Milt did not add anything else. Finally, Frank added, "He's dead. I got the call about five-thirty today. Never woke up."

"Good," Hardcastle replied, hard but quiet, without looking up.

Harper waited for something else, but the judge had managed to pack enough cold relief into the one word. Now he sat back in the chair, eyes fixed on a point a little to the left of Frank. The silence stretched out; with anyone else Frank would have become uncomfortable, but the two of them had enough shared years to fill in the space between them. He merely waited.

And, finally, Hardcastle added, "He's not saying much, Frank. He's not talking about it at all. Just gets skittish and says, 'I'm okay'."

"Yeah," Frank allowed himself a small smile, "well, that's how you know he's normal, right?"

The judge gave him an impatient look. "I think he needs to talk about this."

"Okay," Frank sighed, "you're probably right." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper in a plastic bag. "I never logged this in. Found it in the shed."

Hardcastle looked at him, puzzled, "You're walking around with evidence in your pocket?"

"It's addressed to _me_; Mark wrote it."

Hardcastle froze for a moment, then held his hand out without a word.

"I dunno, Milt; maybe Mark doesn't want to say what you don't need to hear."

"Dammit, Frank, I already _know_ what happened; I need to know what happened to _him_."

Harper nodded once and passed the bag across the desk. Hardcastle seemed to hesitate for just a second before picking it up and decisively removing the contents--a half-page size sheet of heavy paper, covered with Mark's handwriting, legible but hurried. Some of the pencil was a little thick, as though he'd been bearing down on the tip and had worn it dull by the end. All of it was readable.

**Frank,**

**I don't have a lot of time here, but I figured you'd want a statement. It's Sunday night—I don't know what time exactly, sorry. It's been dark for a while. I know he's killed two guys already and I'm not sure about the other one, but I didn't see him at all after the first morning and I don't think there was a gold watch involved. The one guy is buried in back of a small house up around here, east maybe, one of those dirt roads north of 18. I know, Frank, I should've paid more attention. It's white with brown** **trim and a shallow grave out back--how many of those can there be? I hope he was dead--**

The non-sequiter took Hardcastle momentarily by surprise, then the scene, with all its nuances, snapped into clearer focus. 'He practically asked me to do it this morning.' _Mark dug the grave, but he didn't know who he was digging it for._ Hardcastle swallowed once; the words were getting a little blurrier.

**--The other guy was Riley, back at the gatehouse. You probably found him already. Riley was in on it with him all along. Tilton said the police were onto Riley but--no disrespect--I'll bet it was Hardcase, right? Anyway, Tilton shot him. Riley didn't see it coming. Hell, _I_ didn't see it coming. And then we came here, and I don't know where this place is either but it belongs to Tilton so I figure you'll find it.**

The words had gotten closer together, pressured, _tight_, like a man who knows he doesn't have a lot of time left and still isn't finished.

**Frank, I found something in the wood chipper, a finger bone maybe?—it's in my pocket. Have your guys look at that machine. I'm sorry I took it apart. Well, I guess I'm not, but I'm sorry if I screwed up your evidence for you, moving things around, but it fell out of the chipper and I didn't want to just leave it there. I don't know who it's from but Tilton has been acting really weird since we got here and, oh Frank what the hell am I saying, that guy has been certifiable weird from the beginning. I don't know what made me think I could work him, I am so sorry--**

The judge found himself laying the paper down on the desk, flattening it with one hand, to keep the words from trembling into unreadability.

**--but I am glad you were there on the beach last night. Thank you for trying to get me out of this mess and thank you for being there with him, for being his back-up, even if he wouldn't let you call in the cavalry, huh? Wanted to let me try my scam? I'm not sure who was crazier, him or me--must be something in the water out at the estate. But, anyway, thank you from both of us.**

The signature was just 'Mark'. Hardcastle picked the sheet up again and turned it over. It was the title page from an owner's manual—'The Bushmaster 1000 Wood Chipper and Mulcher, 10 HP, with eversharp blades'.

He looked up at Frank again, after a moment. "Do you want this back?"

Frank shook his head. "No case anymore, suspect's dead. Thompson isn't real happy but, hell, Thompson's never happy. Just try not to get in his face for a couple of months, will ya, Milt?"

Hardcastle, uncharacteristically compliant, merely nodded as he folded the sheet in half once and put it into his own pocket.

Frank stretched a little in his seat, still looking like a man who was short on sleep, "That IRS agent's son called me this morning, pretty upset about the start of the trial being delayed yesterday; Thompson hadn't given him any of the details. I told him what happened, not everything, just enough so he got the big picture. Anyway, he said to tell you 'thanks'." Harper sighed, sometimes people talked about justice, when what they really wanted was vengeance. "I'd better be going. Got a stack of paperwork down at the office." Then he hesitated before adding, "_You_ okay, Milt?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle grunted, "I'll be okay." And he got up to see Frank off to the door.

**00000**

He watched the car pull away, barely out of sight down the drive before he turned to go back inside. The wind had died down a little, and the pavement had dried, but there was still a bite to the air. He grabbed his coat from the closet and, after a moment's thought, reached for McCormick's heavier one as well. _Damn fool kid going out in a windbreaker; what was he thinking?_

He headed out the back door and across the yard, stopping at the overlook and scanning the beach below. No one in sight, maybe he was still walking; he could've gotten quite a ways in the time he'd been gone. But he thought the most likely possibility was a spot not visible from this vantage point, and he headed down the beach path, spare coat slung over his shoulder.

He came out onto the beach above where he'd been the other night. Now that he was closer, the pounding surf was even more impressive, the storm surge was up past the place where he'd buried the file. The rocks were catching the spray, but it didn't seem to matter to the man sitting there, perched atop the long, flat one closest to the water.

The ocean sounds covered his approach and Mark was staring fixedly out to sea. The judge made it all the way to the dry side of the rock without an acknowledgement from the other man. There he hesitated, not wanting to startle him. In the end he settled for a grumbling shout, "What the hell are you doing out here, McCormick?" which had the benefit of being unmistakably familiar.

The kid looked over his shoulder and then scrambled to his feet and walked back to the shore side of the rock, peering down at him from his higher elevation. "Well, I'm looking at the waves. What are you doing here?" he answered mildly, in a tone that just carried over the surf and the wind.

Hardcastle frowned. "Looking for _you_, whadda ya think? You go out in this kinda weather all banged up and just wearing that jacket, and now you've gone and gotten soaked, on top of it all."

McCormick ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at them, astonished, before attempting to wipe them off on his equally sodden jeans. "Just a little _damp_," he muttered defensively.

Hardcastle, seizing the moral advantage, handed up the coat and watched McCormick fumble his way into it. The he waited a moment until the kid guiltily offered him a hand up. From this new perspective, the rock looked almost like the prow of a ship, breaking through the storm tossed waves. He could see why the kid had been mesmerized.

"Don't blame me if you get soaked, too," McCormick warned, stepping back over to the seaward side.

"You shouldn't stand so close to the edge," Hardcastle grumbled from just behind him. "A wave hits the wrong way and you'll be knocked in there."

"That's why I was sitting down before." Mark looked over his shoulder for a minute, smiling. "Anyway, it's . . . exhilarating."

"No, it's not," Hardcastle grumbled again. "It's wet and cold and _dangerous_. And I'm not going in there to fish you out, so stand back a little bit."

McCormick took one grudging step back just as a rogue wave slapped up onto the rock and dropped a packet of water where his feet had been. They both took one more step back. "Okay, well, it's a _little_ wet," he admitted, still smiling.

Hardcastle was trying to adjust his mind to the unexpected. Well, why shouldn't the kid be happy? He was alive; he'd survived. No permanent damage. And yet he would have sworn this was not the mood in which he'd left the house this morning.

The judge frowned. It occurred to him that it was much harder to ask somebody "Why are you okay?" than "What's wrong?" He watched the other man's face from the side, turned into the wind, ignoring the cold. It was hard to tell where the bruises left off and the shadows began. The set smile did not include his eyes.

Hardcastle made a quick calculation and then leaned in closer, so he could speak in a more nearly normal tone. "Frank just left." The face did not change; Mark did not turn to face him, but he saw him stiffen up a little.

"What did he have to say?" McCormick asked tensely, the smile gone.

"Tilton," Hardcastle bit the name out, "dead this morning."

McCormick had blinked once and was looking down at the rock in front of him. After a moment he turned his head, looked at the judge, and asked matter-of-factly, "So who killed him, you or me?"

Hardcastle looked a little surprised at this, but took only a second to reply. "Hah, you didn't even slow him down, kiddo. He never regained consciousness after I shot him."

"Okay," McCormick thought for a moment, and nodded at this reasoning, "then thank you."

Hardcastle heard these words with no particular surprise. He'd been expecting them for a while now, the way Mark had clung to his hand in the cabin, like he was some sort of avenging angel back from the grave. He hadn't said anything then, whatever it took to get the kid out of that place in one piece. But he was damned if he was going to take any credit for it now.

"_No_," he said emphatically, "none of that. You're not going to thank me because I got you out of something you never would have been in, in the first place, if it hadn't been for--"

"For what?" McCormick interrupted him. "Because you spent years trying to get Tilton off the street? Judge, that guy was crazy evil. He made Weed Randall look like the poster child for good mental hygiene. I _know_ you don't just go after the easy--"

"_No_," Hardcastle put one hand out, stopping the kid in mid-sentence. Mark had drawn back a little, looking puzzled. The judge went on, "Yeah, we deal with some bad stuff, and I guess that's okay, as long as you know what we're getting into. But this time you didn't and that's _my_ fault."

"Tilton was before my time."

"_All _these guys were before your time, McCormick." Hardcastle fumbled for the next words, not making eye contact with the younger man. "I think maybe this time I wanted to put some space between you and . . . and that guy. Like I thought maybe somehow I could keep you out of it," he darted one glance up and then was back to studying the rocky ground between them.

"But . . . why?"

Hardcastle frowned. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about the reason; he must've done that a hundred times since Saturday morning; each time the answer had become more glaringly apparent, so that now it seemed as though his motives must be entirely transparent to everyone else as well. But McCormick was asking 'why?', and surely he deserved an answer.

"Because," he began simply. "Because I think I must've known he'd try to take from me what he thought I'd taken from him."

In the silence that followed, Hardcastle looked up cautiously. McCormick was looking back at him, a bemused expression on his face. _Was it that damn hard to believe?_

McCormick dragged his mouth shut, glanced down at his own feet again, and said, "Thank you." Just that, no smart ass remark to lighten the load. Then, "And I _am_ sorry."

"What the hell for?" Hardcastle said in exasperation.

The kid looked briefly surprised, as though he were being asked to explain something obvious. Then he raised his shoulders fractionally and said, "Because I nearly got you killed. That was _my_ goofy plan in action down here Saturday night."

Hardcastle put the palm of his hand to his own forehead, "Yeah, and the alternative was still me walking up to Tilton with the file under my arm, so just which part of the 'goofy' are you feeling responsible for?"

McCormick's response was immediate, "The part where you drew on two armed guys because you thought maybe you could save me."

"Well," the judge drawled, "there's nothin' you can do about _that_, kiddo. Live with it."

McCormick grimaced; the judge caught the look. Then the younger man smiled again, a little more grimly. "See, Hardcase," he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the still-pounding surf, "if I got knocked in that ocean you really _would_ go in there to try and fish me out. Only we'd both drown." He spoke calmly, as if with certain knowledge. "But I'd probably last about five minutes longer than you, and feel guilty as hell."

It was Hardcastle's turn to shrug. "Just as long as you kept treading water."

"I would." McCormick looked back at the ocean for a moment. "I did."

They stood there a moment longer, until finally the judge clapped his hands together and said, "You cold enough yet? Maybe you wanna go inside and have lunch. I'll make some soup."

The laugh was totally unexpected and abrupt. Hardcastle waited patiently until McCormick stopped, then he quirked an eyebrow at the kid.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," McCormick clutched the left side of his ribs. "I think I can handle the saltines, just please, _not_ clam chowder."


End file.
